


Crime in Crystals: Mirage

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Crime in Crystals [9]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nobility, Familicide, M/M, Nobility, OC death, Treason, Violence, and the terrible things that it does to people, minor torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: And the wheel turns, and out pops another story! :D This absolutely gorgeous cover was lovingly designed by Radetzkymarch, and then hideously defaced by me. Did you know that Windows 7 and Windows 10 have different default fonts on MS Paint? I didn't!Seriously, though - go check out his gorgeous work here: https://workadayrobot.tumblr.com/ There'll probably be a post with the full sized version, too - which you should 100% check out because there's a ton of neat details that you can't see in the resized one :D Here: https://workadayrobot.tumblr.com/post/627010959487205376/radetzkymarch-i-had-so-much-fun-making-thisThe first chapter of this should be up in just a little bit, so hang tight for me, K? :D
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime, Mirage/Hound
Series: Crime in Crystals [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749994
Comments: 294
Kudos: 179





	1. Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the wheel turns, and out pops another story! :D This absolutely gorgeous cover was lovingly designed by Radetzkymarch, and then hideously defaced by me. Did you know that Windows 7 and Windows 10 have different default fonts on MS Paint? I didn't!
> 
> Seriously, though - go check out his gorgeous work here: https://workadayrobot.tumblr.com/ There'll probably be a post with the full sized version, too - which you should 100% check out because there's a ton of neat details that you can't see in the resized one :D Here: https://workadayrobot.tumblr.com/post/627010959487205376/radetzkymarch-i-had-so-much-fun-making-this
> 
> The first chapter of this should be up in just a little bit, so hang tight for me, K? :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Welcome to the first of a couple of side fics for Crime in Crystals! If you're reading this, I _especially_ recommend you start from the beginning, because this AU is already pretty developed and, even though this is earlier chronologically, it's here so that we can avoid spoilers in both directions. If you just want to read about Sad Things Happening To Mirage, though, you're probably fine.

It’s Ironhide who notices the spattered energon on the floor first.

Not that he blames the other two for missing it - they’re not wary like he is, not here within the Primal Palace itself, but that’s not their job. It is his, however, and he raises a hand for both of them to stop, scanning the hallway warily.

“Ironhide, what -” Ultra Magnus takes only a moment longer to notice the stain. He drops a hand into subspace, drawing his gun - Optimus already has his out, and Ironhide gives him an approving nod as Ultra Magnus shifts to flank him.

::I don’ see anything.:: He pings out, after a moment. ::Don’ hear anythin’ either, an’ Red says he ain’t pickin up nothin’ on th’ cameras - stay alert.::

:: _Understood_ ,:: pings back Ultra Magnus. ::I’m not detecting anything, either.::

::Nor am I.:: Optimus hesitates. ::There’s a trail -::

He gestures - just slightly, a quick military flick of his elbow - back down the intersection, and Ironhide nods as he notices the energon droplets trailing that way. He checks the other halls briefly. ::An’ there.:: That one is more concerning - it leads, vaguely, in the same direction they were headed: towards the Prime’s personal rooms.

::You should get Optimus to someplace secure,:: Ultra Magnus offers. ::To his rooms - I can go investigate -::

He gestures after the energon, and Ironhide nods. ::Yeah, I got it, Megs. I’ll get Optimus ta his rooms, an’ let th’ guard know ta lock us down - ye sure yer alright checkin’ things out?::

::Of course.:: Ultra Magnus hefts his gun - small enough for him to fire one-handed, though even Ironhide would struggle to do so; on any other mech, it would be a two-hander. Ironhide has seen what it does to smaller mechs before. It’s reassuring. ::I’ll keep in touch.::

::Got it.::

Ironhide gestures for Optimus to follow him down the hall. It’s a relief - he’s worked with plenty of nobles, let alone Primes, that would balk at following a subordinates orders, but Optimus’ field is trusting, and he doesn’t argue as they pad through the halls.

Ironhide _hopes_ that the energon trail will thicken, giving proof that the bleeding mech is moving away from the rooms - proof, perhaps, of an assassin intercepted, much as he dreads finding the greyed frame of one of his own guard. That hope fades, quickly - the splatters of energon grow less frequent, and lighter, as they follow the hallways back towards Optimus’ rooms, tell-tale evidence that the injured mech’s autorepair is sealing the wounds.

::I don’ like this, Optimus.:: Ironhide mutters to him over comms. ::This’s - this is a hit.::

::Once we reach my quarters, we can reassess, Ironhide.:: Optimus’ voice is steady and confident. ::If it’s an assassin, we’ll deal with it - this isn’t an inconsequential amount of energon. If not…::

He trails off, and Ironhide gives a snort of acknowledgement - there’s precious few reasons for a mech to be in this wing at all, let alone seemingly on a beeline for the Prime’s quarters.

They walk along in carefully coordinated silence together, working their way professionally down the halls - Ironhide a step in front, clearing the corners, Optimus moving effortlessly backwards, pistol at the ready, letting Ironhide guide him down carefully memorized corridors. There’s nothing - no disturbance, no sound of a struggle - as they reach the Prime’s personal suites.

The doors are - uncharacteristically - closed; it’s rare for Optimus to have the section closed off, but Ironhide sent the orders the klik he first noticed the energon, and the two guards framing the doors are alert, weapons readied. They greet Ironhide - and Optimus - with courteous nods as they approach, but don’t move from their postings, and Ironhide hums approval.

“Anymech try ta get by here?” 

“No, sir.” One of them - a younger guard, a Polyhexian named Threnody - replies. “It’s been quiet - no one’s tried to come by.”

A quick examination of the hallway gives him reason to hope that’s accurate - there aren’t any fuel spatters, at least none large enough to make out at a glance. “Good job, mechs. Keep a guard out -”

Optimus raises a hand at that, though. “No - head to the eastern wing; locate Commander Magnus, and put yourselves at his disposal. Ironhide and I will be fine.”

It’s a direct order from their Prime - but the two guards still hesitate. With any other Prime, it would be a lethal mistake - and from the look on their faces, they know it - but Ironhide waves them off. “Go on, then, mechs - I’ve got thin’s here.” 

They nod, and are gone - headed down the corridor at a brisk trot. Ironhide waits until the door to the Prime’s suites slicks shut before huffing. “I wish ye wouldn’ do tha’. I love Magnus, ye know I do, bu’ ‘e can handle ‘imself -” He scans the room as he steps past Optimus, door clicking shut behind him, and freezes.

“I know - but if a mech managed to get all the way here undetected, _and_ somehow overwhelms both of us -” It takes Optimus a klik to notice what he’s staring at - the spatter of fresh energon across the couch in the center of the room.

::Put yer back t’ the door, mech.:: Ironhide’s voice brokers no argument, and Optimus complies easily, readying his gun. ::Hit cover b’hind th’ pillars if somemech starts firin’ -” 

He drops his own helm low as he moves into the room, sweeping with his gun as he scans for targets - but the room _appears_ empty. Behind him, he can feel the low hum of Optimus’ own scanners brushing across his plating - they’re more powerful than his own, not hampered by the interference of inches of heavy armor, and Ironhide waits for the Prime’s report before moving on. 

::Nothing.:: Optimus offers. ::At least, nothing that I can pick up. Should we move on together, or…?::

::Together,:: Ironhide agrees - it’s better than risking being rooms apart when the intruder finally appears, but only just. They move in synch to the back hallway - and Ironhide raises a hand again.

There’s a smeared handprint of energon across the wall.

It’s not large - a smaller racer, perhaps, something agile and lightly-framed - which is reassuring, in some ways: Ironhide is very well-equipped to deal with a single, lightly-armored mech. He scans the hallway - but only one door is open, and just a bit; Optimus’ berthroom, at the far end of the hall.

::There.:: He points it out to Optimus, who nods. ::Could be any of them, but my bet, with this much energon loss…::

::They’ll be there.:: It’s a sensible place for an assassin to head - especially a disoriented, badly-injured one looking to make a final attempt on the Prime. The size of the mech makes the quantity of energon lost more dramatic - it’s not enough, at least from what they’ve seen, to put a frame into stasis, but it is significant. ::Tried ta patch themselves up, maybe, an’ headed in ta finish th’ job when they couldn’ -::

::Red still doesn’t have anything on the cameras?:: Optimus asks, and Ironhide checks, briefly, before shaking his helm.

::Says he doesn’ - he rewound th’ tapes, an’ he says th’ energon jus’ - appeared. ‘Bout two breems ago - probably somemech tamperin’ wi’ th’ video.” Which is worrying all on it’s own, with how carefully Red Alert monitors his streams, and Ironhide sends a quick ping to Inferno to talk his conjunx down before Red Alert locks down the whole building.

::Proceed carefully, then.:: Optimus’ voice is concerned - for him, which is the only reason Ironhide doesn’t mention that _he knows his job, thank ye -_ and Ironhide nods again as he moves carefully down the corridor and nudges the door open with his pede.

::Keep yer gun ready, Optimus.:: He steps into the doorway, blocking any possible view of Optimus’ frame against the light. “Alright, mech - there’s only two ways this’s gonna play. Ye kin come out, an’ I prob’ly ain’t gonna hurt ya much - or ye kin try an’ pull somethin’ an’ I shoot ya. Up ta ye.” 

He waits a moment before striding into the room, giving Optimus one last warning glance as he does.

He scans the room, carefully - gun sweeping a wide and cautious arc over the elegant furnishings, the seemingly-undisturbed berth. He stops when he reaches the wall - and the wet spatter of energon across it, the handprint half-dragging to the ground. 

::Watch my back, Optimus:: He waits - just a moment - for the confirmation ping before edging forwards, gun ready -

And he almost, _almost_ shoots the wide-opticked, frightened mech that appears before him in the helm.

“Fragging Pit -” he snarls the words, gun training on the mech regardless. It takes a moment for the details of the mech’s frame to register beyond those that are combat-essential - the elegant gilt lining of his armor, the marker of a noble house, the way his hands are clutched across his energon-stained chest, and the terrified look in his gaze.

“Start talkin’, mech.” He steps forwards, flaring his armor menacingly, and the lighter-framed mech flinches back - but Optimus, frustratingly, follows him forwards to get a good look at his prisoner.

“Please - don’t shoot me.” The blue and white noble’s voice is hoarse with desperation, his gaze flicking between them, stress spiking his field. “I don’t - I’m not here to hurt anyone, please - my Sire -”

Ironhide lets his engine rumble threateningly. “Well then -” But Optimus, gaze softening frustratingly, waves him silent, and steps forwards to kneel beside the noble.

::Optimus -::

::No, Ironhide. Look at him - he’s terrified. He’s not going to do any harm.:: Optimus sounds just as annoyingly confident of that as he does everything else - but even Ironhide has to admit that the Matrix in his chest rarely leads them astray - and that the mech doesn’t look like he’s got anywhere near the strength or armaments to do serious damage. “Here - let me -”

He brushes his hand across the blue mech’s, and the noble allows him to lift it away, revealing the jagged injury hidden underneath. It’s mostly sealed over, the thin black crust of nanites enough to stop the worst of the energon flow - but there’s still a trickle, sticky and pink and glowing, faintly, where it hasn’t had time to gel.

Ironhide doesn’t hold back a sympathetic wince - it’s a nasty, brutal wound on a mech the noble’s size. On himself, or Optimus, it wouldn’t be more than an inconvenience - reason to shunt off flow to a limb, if possible, but not terribly concerning as even a torso injury - but it’s obvious from the dimmed look in the noble’s optics that he’s lost a lot of fuel already, his civilian-grade nanites ill-equipped for a serious gash.

::Here, Optimus - get this in ‘im.:: He doesn’t kneel - _his_ finger is staying right on the trigger where it belongs, frame covering Optimus’, where he has plenty of space to pivot to the door or take a shot down the hall if he needs to - but he unsubspaces a sealed cube of med-grade and drops it to where Optimus can grab it without taking his optics off the noble.

Optimus pings back gratitude as he unseals it and lifts it to the noble’s lips. “Drink.” To his credit, the blue mech doesn’t hesitate - he takes a few strong sips before pulling his helm away.

“No more… my Lord.” Optimus tries to offer it again, but he shakes his helm. “Energon pressure… low. I - I don’t know - I think I’ll… start bleeding, again. If I… drink more.”

“We jus’ gotta get ‘nuff fuel in ye ta move, mech.” Ironhide’s voice is encouraging. “I got a welder in mah subspace - ye ain’ bleedin’ out here, I promise.”

The young noble’s gaze shifts, foggily, to him - it seems to take him a moment to figure out what Ironhide’s saying, and the guard debates having Optimus repeat it before, at last, he nods. “Sorry - sir.” His voice is heavy with exhaustion and pain, the words sluggish, but he obediently downs what’s left of the cube. When Optimus rises to his pedes, it’s with the slight frame tucked in one large arm.

::Got th’ Prime’sguard lockin’ down th’ corridors, Optimus - we should be clear. Let me get a couple’a mechs ta take th’ kid ta medical, an’ I’ll -:: But the blue mech lets out a groan of discomfort, and he can already tell Optimus’ attention is gone. 

“Are you alright?” He prompts, gently. “I’ll get a pain chip for you in just a klik. But please - tell me what happened.”

“My - my Sire. He - my Lord Prime, I’m _sorry_ \- I didn’t know where else to go, who to tell -” With more fuel in him, the noble already sounds slightly better - as Optimus lays him on the berth, slotting a pain chit from the berthside table into a willingly-offered arm port, his voice clears somewhat. “My Lord Prime - my name is Mirage, of the House of Twisted Glass. My sire - he’s plotting to kill you!”

“What?” That has Ironhide’s plating flaring aggressively. ::Ultra Magnus - Ultra Magnus -::

::Ironhide -:: Ultra Magnus’ voice is cool and confident as he replies. ::What is wrong?::

::Hold back for a klik - we found the mech tha’ was bleedin’ out on our end - says tha’ his family’re plottin’ ‘gainst th’ Prime. I’ve got reinforcements headin’ yer way - wait fer ‘em -:: There’s silence from Ultra Magnus down the comm, and he pings him again - ::Mags?::

::That explains a great deal. Tell them to come quickly.:: Ultra Magnus replies, and cuts the comm.

“Slag - Optimus, Mags is gettin’ shot at. I’ve got ‘guard headin’ ta him -” Optimus looks up at him, optics concerned, and starts to rise. “Ah ah ah - we’re stayin’ here, mech, this ain’ th’ war. Weld th’ kid up.”

Optimus hesitates - but backs down, glancing away, when Ironhide doesn’t waver. His attention settles back on Mirage, who is looking up at both of them with wide, terrified optics, and he pulls a mesh and solvent from his subspace to begin wiping the coagulated fuel away. “Your sire.” he asks, brushing a hand across Mirage’s shoulder. “Did he do this to you?”

The young noble’s voice is small when he answers, field trembling with the force of his fear. “Yes, my Lord Prime.” Mirage hesitates to say anything else, until Optimus settles back on the berth besides him, priming the welder, vast field urging him on. “He - he wanted me to kill you, my Lord Prime. He - he tried to order me to - to -”

His voice cracks as his optics squeeze shut, helm turning aside to bury his face in the cushions, but Optimus hums, soothingly. “It’s okay, young one - you can tell me.” Mirage winces slightly as Optimus begins patching his plating, but nods.

“He told me to come here - to kill you, my Lord Prime. But I - I said that I wouldn’t, and -” Mirage falters again, but regains his strength after a moment. “He beat me - said that I should die, if I wouldn’t obey, but I _had_ to run, I had to warn you -”

“You did the right thing.” Ironhide can see the way Optimus’ armor flattens at the implication that Mirage should have _allowed_ himself to be beaten - and is reminded, at once, that the mech, however well he’s adapted to his role, is a commoner. “You did - very well, bringing this to me - to us - Mirage. Thank you.”

He looks like he’s going to say something else, shutting off the welder and setting it aside - but there’s a burst of heavy arms fire down the hall, and Optimus’ helm shoots up as he scrambles for his gun. “Ironhide -”

“Optimus - no -” But there’s a distress ping, one that is spark-wrenchingly familiar from a dozen battlefields, and it’s marked with Ultra Magnus’ ident, and there’s nothing at all he can do but shout, “Stay there!” over his shoulder as he sprints down the hall after the Prime.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tha’ was stupid.” Ironhide’s whole frame _burns_ with exhaustion - it’s _joors_ later by the time he manages to drag Optimus back to his rooms. “Tha’ was stupid, an’ risky, an’ ye couldn’ve got shot, mech -”

“I would have been shot right here, if we hadn’t been there to back up Ultra Magnus,” Optimus protests. “Shroud would have led his little rebellion right down here, if they’d overwhelmed him -”

“That’s what yer guards are for, mech!” Ironhide waves one arm in frustration - would wave both, if Optimus wasn’t using the other to support himself. “I din’ train _a hund’rd Prime’sguard_ so’s ye’d have anythin’ less than a _hund’rd afts_ b’tween yerself an’ any fightin’ -”

He staggers, as they reach the berthroom - falls against the door, which opens with a bang - and is met with a frightened noise and a pair of wide, bright amber optics.

Ironhide stares, for a klik. So does Optimus. So, huddled on the floor, whole frame hunched miserably against a wall, does Mirage.

“Slag.” Ironhide swears, not bothering with composure - he’s _tired_. “Fraggin’ - slag it all ta _Pit_ \- I knew we fergot somethin’.”

Mirage, if it’s possible, curls even tighter against the wall, optics terrified. “I’m - sorry?” he tries, voice soft.

“No - no, it’s all right.” It’s Optimus who steps forwards, first, leading Ironhide towards the berth - but Ironhide shrugs him off, staggering on his pedes until he locks out his legs.

Optimus gives him a concerned glance - and then, frustratingly, _keeps walking towards the threat_ , hand outstretched. “You’re safe. The rest of your family are - they’re not going to come after you.”

“Oh.” Mirage flinches. “They’re all - dead, then?”

“No!” Optimus’ optics widen. “They - my guards arrested them, took them into custody.” It’s not entirely true - more than a couple of frames were graying, when Ironhide dragged them out of the hallway-turned-battlefield - but it seems to relax Mirage, a little - his whole frame sags.

::I kin’ have th’ guards here in -:: He pings Kup, briefly. ::Slag - it’ll be a couple a’ breem. They’re tryna’ deal wi’ th’ medics, now - I can have ‘im rush somemech -::

::It’s fine, Ironhide. He’s not an enemy - we can handle this.:: Optimus sounds assured, but Ironhide hesitates.

::Prime?:: Optimus steps forward again, reaching out to half-scoop the young noble into his arms. He straightens, Mirage’s hands flying up to latch onto his plating - his optics blazing in fright - but Optimus just hums, softly, and carries him over to the berth.

::Prime - what th’ slag are ye doin’?:: Something ill-advised, obviously, but -

::By the time he wakes up tomorrow, half of his family will be dead, and the other half will have a vested interest in killing him.:: Optimus runs his hand gently down the trembling noble’s arm. ::And he knows that, Ironhide. Come here - help him feel safe with me.:: 

Ironhide stares down at the trembling frame on the berth, who stares, wide-opticked, up at Optimus with a desperate sort of terror that has Ironhide softening the longer he watches. ::Slag, Optimus. This’s a bad idea.::

But he settles on the opposite side of the berth, nudging Mirage gently until he can fit. “‘S alright, kid. You don’ gotta be scared - ‘s too late t’ go chasin’ around after ye. Jus’ - grab some ‘charge, an’ we’ll take care o’ thin’s in th’ mornin’.”

“Here?” Mirage’s voice is very soft. “My Lord -”

“Relax, Mirage. I won’t have you recharging on the floor.” Optimus lets out a soft, fond hum as Ironhide settles in across from him. “You’re safe, here. Just… try to recharge. Everything else can wait for the morning.”

It’s easy to tell how nervous Mirage is - his whole field is tight, and taut between them - but Optimus’ is vast, and soothing, and Ironhide knows from experience how difficult it is to resist up close. Slowly - breem by breem - his plating settles, field smoothing to the very edge of recharge - and then flattening entirely as he tumbles over into sleep.

It’s only then that Optimus glances up - just long enough to give him an exhausted smile. 

::Get ta sleep, ye.:: Ironhide brushes back over comms, and Optimus laughs a reply, before he loses the battle with recharge entirely and sinks into it, his field, too, turning flat and dull.

Ironhide doesn’t fall into proper recharge - can’t, not with a strange mech so close to his Prime’s spark. He stays half-online, instead, and watches, through the night - when Mirage’s sleep turns fitful, and when Optimus cries out, keening, in his recharge.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s a little better off when Optimus begins to stir the next morning. Even the uncomfortable half-recharge is enough to refresh him some - and he’s had plenty of experience with it, as Prime’sguard and on campaign. Mirage, fortunately, hasn’t done more than stir all night - though when Optimus shifts beside him, he lets out a soft whuffle of protest.

Optimus glances down at him - and blinks in confusion before his memories of the night before return. ::Oh.::

::Oh is right, mech.:: Ironhide grumbles - but there’s something about the way Optimus brushes his fingers gently over Mirage’s helm that makes it hard to stay annoyed at him. ::You ready ta deal wi’ all th’ slag from yesterday, Optimus, or you need a klik?::

::A klik,:: Optimus agrees. ::Is there any news about Magnus?::

::He’s fine. Slaggers did a nasty job ta ‘is leg, but Ambulon managed ta tie ‘im down long enough ta deal wi’ th’ worst of it - an’ managed ta rope th’ Enforcer medic he’s been seein’ inta keepin’ ‘im here. Not tha’ I’m doubtin’ th’ mech’s abilities, or slag - jus’...:: 

::He’ll be back working the moment Ambulon lets him go.:: Optimus chuckles. ::Primus.::

::’Zactly.:: Ironhide shares a fond glance with the Prime, at that. ::Rest of th’ guard - well, a couple a’ injuries, an’ Truncheon’s still in surgery, prol’ly gonna be laid up fer at least an’ orn, but none’a our mechs got slagged too bad.::

::I’ll visit Truncheon once he’s stable.:: Optimus nods, just slightly. ::All the rest of them too - I’ll have Equity arrange a special dispensation, something nice -::

::An’ I know they’ll appreciate it.:: Ironhide chuckles softly. ::But you know my lads, Optimus - have th’ chefs arrange a couple’a trays a’ -:: 

He trails off as Mirage, wakened by his laugh, begins to stir again. He lets out a muffled whine - then stills as his optics come online, confusion blooming across his field. 

“Where -” His whole field stiffens as he takes in the two mechs laying besides him, his plating going flat as his optics widen. All he manages, staring up at them, is a soft “Oh.”

“Hey, kid.” Ironhide keeps his voice soft, not wanting to panic the smaller mech. “It’s alright - we ain’t gonna hurt ye.”

“You’re safe, Mirage.” Optimus strokes his helm gently, again, before sliding upright. “How are you feeling?”

MIrage stares at him a moment longer before responding. “Better, my Lord Prime. Thank you.” He still seems disoriented, though, and Optimus rises fully, stepping away to rifle through a cabinet and offer him a little space. Ironhide, too, hauls himself upright, before offering the smaller mech a hand.

“You grabbin’ a cube, sir?” He asks Optimus - adding on the formal signifiers that he rarely uses, even in company. 

“I’ll bring enough for all three of us.” Optimus glances back with a nod. “Why don’t the two of you go sit in the lounge?”

“Sounds good ta me. C’mon, kid - we’ll get’cha fueled up, an’ take a look at ye.” Mirage rises, obediently, and follows closely as he strides out of the room - relaxing once there’s a door between himself and Optimus.

“Set yerself over here, kid. I want ta check tha’ gash o’ yers, real quick.”

“Yes, sir.” The noble doesn’t resist as Ironhide guides him to the couch, or at his careful probing of the hurried welds - though he can’t quite hold back a hiss of pain. 

“Here.” Ironhide offers him a pain chip. “An’ a shower, once we’ve got some fuel in ye, I think. Don’ wan’ tha’ slag gummin’ up in yer gears.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mirage takes the chip, hesitantly, examining it before he slots it into his arm. Ironhide doesn’t comment on the caution - instead, he glances up to wave Optimus over as he joins them, three cubes in his hands. 

“Here.” He offers one to Mirage, who looks at it like a particularly frightening organic before glancing up to meet his optics - and then, optics widening, tries to look _anywhere else_. “It’s alright, Mirage -” and Optimus does an admirable job of keeping his frustration out of his voice, because Ironhide _knows_ how much he hates that mechs won’t meet his optics anymore - “You need the fuel. Drink.”

“Yer doin' fine,” offers Ironhide, leaning in like he’s watched the courtiers do, instructing lowborn petitioners to the Primes. “He ain’t gonna hold ye ta court standards, mech.”

Mirage doesn’t look up at Optimus - his whole field roils with anxious tension - but he accepts the cube and cracks the seal before hesitantly taking a sip. “Thank you, my Lord Prime.”

“You’re welcome, Mirage.” He hands Ironhide another cube before cracking the seal on his own and downing half of it in a single swig.

They sit in silence while they fuel - Mirage flinches at every unexpected sound - but that doesn’t keep them off the comms.

::Primus, he’s skittish.::

::He is.:: Ironhide agrees. ::Don’ blame ‘im - he was here as an assassin, whether ‘e did th’ job or no. Gonna have ta hand ‘im off ta somemech - I’ll have some of th’ guard come by in a joor or so ta pick ‘im up. Told ‘im ‘e could grab a shower, first - figure th’ medics ain’ gonna be ready fer him ‘til then, anyhow.::

::That’s good.:: Optimus pings back approvingly. ::I can’t believe we forgot that he was here…::

::Stupid of me, yeah. Won’ make tha’ mistake again.::

::You were exhausted. It was just as much my error - I just…::

::Din’t think o’ it.:: Ironhide chuckles, down the link. ::Yeah. Thank Primus it were jus’ a kid, though - if ‘e’d been a real threat…::

::If he’d been a real threat, you wouldn’t have forgotten him, Ironhide.:: There’s no reproach at all in Optimus’ tone, the words confident. ::It’s fine. He got a good night’s recharge - I didn’t want…::

He trails off for a moment. ::The cells - I doubt there would have been any quiet there at all.::

::No place fer a kid,:: Ironhide agrees after a klik. ::I get it. Might need ya ta slap a minibot in public, or somethin’, later -:: Optimus jerks back, looking up at him with wide, confused optics, and Ironhide smirks. ::Can’t have it gettin’ out tha’ our Prime’s a soft touch wi’ th’ younglin’s.::

There’s a soft, scared sound between him and Optimus, and Ironhide glances down - to where Mirage is sitting, cube empty, gaze flicking between them. “Oh - slag, kid, I’m sorry.” He pats the smaller mech’s shoulder awkwardly. “Ain’t anythin’ - just talkin’.” 

Optimus reaches out to take the cube, setting it on the table. “Why don’t you go clean up?” He offers kindly, gesturing at a door off to the side - the washracks. “There’s no rush. Take your time.”

“Yes, my Lord Prime.” Mirage scrambles to his pedes at the invitation, ducking into a bow - and then he’s gone, as fast as his frame can take him, the door to the washrack clicking shut behind him.

::Primus.:: Ironhide lets out a soft rumbling chuckle. ::Edgy little mech.::

::He has reason,:: Optimus agrees. ::And I doubt he’ll be out too quickly. Grab some recharge, Ironhide - I’ll wake you up when he’s finished.::

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been, by his chronometer, just over a joor when Optimus nudges him awake - enough time to have at least gotten rid of the lingering ache in his helm. He takes a moment and glances around. Mirage is standing, awkwardly but clean, by the door to the washracks, and Ironhide raises a hand in greeting - but before he or Optimus can say anything, they’re interrupted by a knock at the door.

::Your mechs, Ironhide?:: Optimus pings, but Ironhide shakes his helm, rising to his pedes to get the door - Optimus following curiously behind.

::Nah - I dunno who -:: He glances through one of the security windows, keeping his frame out of the way so as not to present a silhouette against the warped glass, and lets himself deflate, a little. ::Oh. It’s Ops. Do I hafta -::

Optimus chuckles, but waves him on. ::It’s fine, I’m sure.:: Ironhide only grumbles down the commlink as he tugs the door open. 

“What d’ye want.”

The mech - who Ironhide recognizes, vaguely, as an agent named Whitestone - cycles his optics at him, disarmed, before turning to give Optimus a deep bow. “My Lord Prime.” He hesitates for just a moment before continuing. “Commander Legend sent me - one of the mechs from the… incident… last cycle is apparently unaccounted for - and he believed they might be in your custody?”

“Mirage?” Optimus asks, plating shifting in confusion. “He is here, yes -”

“Commander Legend sent me to take him into Ops custody.” Whitestone gestures at the pair of well-armed mechs behind him. “If you’ll allow us, my Lord?”

“He ain’ ta be mechhandled.” It’s Ironhide who speaks, voice a low rumble, and Whitestone’s attention shifts to him in surprise. “Kid saved th’ Prime’s spark. Right, Optimus?”

“Right.” Optimus nods his agreement. “Tell Legend - nothing is to be done with Mirage without my permission. And inform him that I will meet with him at joor sixteen - barring further excitement.”

“Understood, my Lord.” There’s a pause, just a klik, while Whitestone relays the message, and then bows his helm. “He will be at your disposal, Lord Prime.”

“I’ll go get ‘im, then.” Ironhide waits for Optimus to nod his approval before ducking back into the Prime’s suite - where, fortunately, the Ops mechs aren’t allowed to follow. 

The noble is gone from the living room - so, on a hunch, he makes his way back to the berthroom, and finds Mirage seated on the berth, optics bright and frightened. “C’mon, kid -” He starts, but Mirage shrinks back from his outstretched hand, and Ironhide lets it drop to his side, shutting the door behind him with a click.

“Are they here to -” Mirage cuts himself off, helm ducking low. It’s obvious that his fear of punishment is warring with his fear of Ironhide - or of the mechs beyond the door. “Are they here to kill me?”

“Oh.” Ironhide pauses, pinging a brief message to Optimus before settling on the side of the berth - a leaden weight settling in his tanks. _He’s_ been doing his best not to think about it, but - “You know ‘bout tha’, huh?”

“ _Everymech_ knows what happens, when a House conspires against the Prime.” Mirage replies, and Ironhide lets his plating flatten nonthreateningly.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“I knew - I knew what would happen, if I - if I told.” Mirage’s field is roiling with emotion. “But - but I couldn’t - I’m _scared -_ ”

“‘S okay, mech. ‘S alright ta be scared. You did a very brave thin’, warnin’ us, an’ -” There’s nothing to tell him, is the problem, and it burns like hot coals in his tanks to know it. Because Mirage is right - he knows it, the young lord knows it, because it’s a thing _meant to be known._ “Ain’t fair ta ye, tha’ tha’s the way it is. But - lemme tell ye wha’s gonna happen?”

Mirage looks up at him, nodding desperately, and Ironhide reaches out, tugging him against his side carefully until he can tuck him under an arm..

“Mechs out there’re gonna take ye inta th’ Prime’s custody, okay? They ain’ gonna hurt ye, but not all’a yer family have been caught yet, so it’s gonna be a couple cycles ‘fore things settle down. An’ after tha’, there’s an investigation - by th’ Prime’sguard, an’ th’ Prime’s Special Operations - ta figure out who else knew ‘bout what yer sire was plottin’. After tha’ -” He trails off for a moment, then shrugs, helplessly. “There’ll be trials, an’ executions, yeah. But - ye’ll know, mech. They ain’ gonna haul you outta yer berth an’ off ye.”

“Oh.” That seems to relax Mirage, a little - his field slowly soothes, plating loosening. “That’s… Will I testify? At the trial?”

“Maybe.” Ironhide shrugs again. “I dunno - I ain’ in charge o’ that bit.”

“I want to.” There’s a conviction to the words that’s tempered, just a little, in hate. “I mean - if the Prime allows…”

“If ye wan’ to, I’m sure ye’ll have yer chance, kid. Don’ think anymech’s lookin’ ta deny you tha’.” Ironhide runs a fond hand over his helm. “I’ll mention it ta Optimus. But - ye think yer ready ta go wi’ th’ mechs, or -”

He can feel the spikes of fear in Mirage’s field at that, the scared little daggers - but Mirage, submissive, starts to rise to his pedes. It doesn’t take much to stop him, though - a large, warm hand against his side, pressing him back down. 

“Sh - sh, it’s alright, kid. Take a klik. No one’s rushin’ ye.” He rubs the smaller mech’s shoulder soothingly, letting the noble relax imperceptibly against him, until at last Mirage’s field is steady, frame loose and calm. “‘S gonna be fine, kid.”

He guides Mirage to his pedes carefully, supporting him when he stumbles, and leads him to the door - where Optimus finishes his hushed conversation with Whitestone and straightens, stepping aside to let Mirage walk out into the hallway with a final glance back.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They visit Ultra Magnus first, of course - he’s upright in berth, two enforcers flanking him, a pile of datapads spread out across his legs. His gaze is tacturn as ever, until he catches sight of them - then it shifts into a faint, relieved smile.

“Ironhide - Optimus. Thank Primus you’re both uninjured.” It’s unusual for Ultra Magnus to be so visibly emotional, and Ironhide grins in reply, pressing outward with his field to brush along other mech’s fondly.

“Good ta see you’re up an’ ‘bout, too - workin’ already?”

“Oh - yes. My subordinates were kind enough to bring me my datapads - I don’t believe you’ve met, except in passing? Streetwise, Nightbeat - this is Ironhide, and, of course, Optimus. Optimus, Ironhide - these are Streetwise and Nightbeat, two of my enforcers.”

His wording isn’t deliberately casual - in fact, Ultra Magnus doesn’t even seem to notice the way both of his subordinate’s plating is flared in alarm, or the way the blue-and-yellow one has snapped to a formal parade rest - but it’s unmissable to anymech else, and Ironhide does his best to look unintimidating as he nods a greeting. “Hey, mechs. You two mind givin' us a klik wit’ yer commander?”

The black-and-white hesitates, glancing up at Ultra Magnus for permission - unlike his blue-and-yellow companion, who is gone the moment Ironhide says the words, any sense of decorum abandoned in favor of _getting out of the room._ Ironhide waits until they’re both gone, and the door clicked shut, to snort in amusement. “Nervous little mechs, ain’t they?”

“I don’t believe either of them has ever worked with the Palace before.” But Ironhide can feel Ultra Magnus’ amusement on his field. 

He gives a matching chuckle. “‘Guess they were only deliverin’ reports. I think a little bit o’ nerves can be forgiven, considerin’.”

“Very true.” Optimus nods, reaching out to rest one hand against Ultra Magnus’ arm fondly. “How are you fairing?”

“I will recover.” Ultra Magnus gestures at his leg with his free hand. “Fortunately, your renegade House hardly managed to smuggle in any significant firepower - this is hardly a scrape, compared to Telutha.”

“Yeah, well - we ain’ gonna shoot fer Telutha in th’ future, understood? Haulin’ yer dense aft off a battlefield once was once to many.” Ironhide pushes, teasingly, against Ultra Magnus’ field. “Unless yer gonna reformat to a civvie frame, ye can keep yerself intact, mech.”

“Reformat to a - oh.” It takes Ultra Magnus a klik for the joke to register, but he smiles appreciatively when it sinks in. “Perhaps not. Although I doubt many mechs could smuggle explosive rounds of that capacity past your security, Ironhide.”

Ironhide snorts. “Shouldn’ have been able ta smuggle rounds a’ any capacity in, but tha’s a problem fer me ta sort. An’ trust me - it’ll be sorted.”

“Are you going to be in here long?” Optimus asks. “I know you don’t like leaving the enforcers -”

That gets a heavy vent from Ultra Magnus. “I have competent subordinates. As they keep reminding me. Nightbeat has enough experience to manage the patrol schedules and - with _great_ reluctance - Cliffjumper has persuaded me to let him manage our planned raid at the Ranseur Point warehouses.”

That’s enough to make Optimus sit back in surprise. “ _Cliffjumper?_ ” It’s a sentiment that Ironhide can’t help but echo - they’ve _heard_ about Cliffjumper. Mostly - and frequently - from Ultra Magnus.

“He has the experience. It would be a slight to him to overlook his seniority just because -”

“- ‘cause ye can’t leave ‘im in th’ room wi’ a suspect fer two breems wi’out sommech ta hold ‘im back?”

“It was _one time_ -” Ultra Magnus protests. “He’s a talented officer -”

“Isn’t he the one who challenged Lord Cotre to a duel on live television?” Optimus asks, grinning.

“It was a properly-issued challenge, one Cotre chose to accept -”

“An’ got his aft beat by a mech a third his size in front’a th’ whole Assembly, mech.” Ironhide laughs at the look Ultra Magnus gives him. “It’s okay ta say he’s yer favorite, mech. Ain’t nomech gonna judge ye -”

“- mostly because they’re afraid he’ll call them out next.” Optimus agrees.

“He can’t possibly do too much harm as patrol commander,” Ultra Magnus offers, hopefully.

“Yer faith in yer mech does ye credit, Mags,” Ironhide agrees, and Ultra Magnus wilts a little. “Nah, mech - I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

Ultra Magnus hesitates. “It’s only three cycles. They can manage for three cycles, I’m sure.”

“Ye trained a professional crew, mech. They’ll handle it. Ye jus’ focus on healin’.” Gesturing at the datapads, Ironhide catches his optic with a grin. “Don’ do too much paperwork. Th’ medics know ta watch ye.”

“I won’t overstress myself,” Ultra Magnus agrees with a compliant bow of his helm. “You two will visit?” He adds, hopefully, and Optimus nods, patting him on the shoulder.

“Of course, Magnus. And don’t hesitate to comm if you need us.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He’s doin’ well,” Ironhide offers, at they trudge towards the audience chambers. “Tha’ was slaggin’ cheery, fer Magnus.”

“Being an enforcer is good for him,” Optimus agrees. “Being a civilian. He was a talented commander, of course, but I don’t think he was ever really _happy_ in the military…”

“An’ now ‘e’s trainin’ up a new generation o’ stick-afts ta follow in ‘is pedesteps.” Ironhide snorts. “Primus help us all.”

“Primus knows we _need_ them, after -” Optimus waves a hand through the air. “Everything. Not that I consider myself a huge fan of the enforcers, but…”

“At leas’ th’ ones Mags brings up’ll be honest.” 

“Exactly.” Optimus vents heavily. “And with this new assassination attempt - well. Legend’s teams will be busy for vorns, I expect - your mechs much the same.”

“We got lucky,” Ironhide agrees. “Real slaggin’ lucky, tha’ th’ kid was loyal ‘nuff ta warn ye rather than snuffin’ yer spark. Slaggin’ pity it got so far - he could’a been great, if he’d’a been one’a ours.”

“Could have -” Optimus’ optics widen, first in confusion - then in regret. “Oh. _Oh._ Right.” He falls silent for a klik. “I had forgotten…”

“I talked ta him, a little. He knew what he was doin’, Optimus.” Ironhide huffs frustration. “Primus’ll make a good spot fer him in th’ Well, an’ all.”

“You don’t like it, either.” It’s not a question - they’ve known each other long enough that Optimus can sense his own discomfort at the thought of seeing the frightened noble executed, can feel his revulsion at the thought of being the mech to bring the axe down. “I don’t like it. Why can’t - why isn’t there -”

He pauses again, and Ironhide can feel the ragged frustration in his voice when he speaks again. “Why can’t I just change things? Just… let him go?” He sounds terribly, terribly young.

“Legend is right, maybe.” Ironhide can’t quite make it sound like he believes himself. But… “Slag - I mean, it ain’ gonna be th’ first time I’ve done this kinda work. It ain’ gonna be th’ last, Optimus. An’ - an’ I dunno. Maybe if it persuades some other damn fool not ta try it, it’s worth it, but…”

“It wouldn’t be so hard, if he were just some mech caught up in all this, I think.” Optimus says, after another klik. “But - he saved my life. And I know - I know I’ve made sacrifices before, but…”

“They keep ye up at night.” Ironhide presses a hand to Optimus’ back, soothingly. He knows - he’s held the Prime’s frame, trembling, through the terrors, and the nightmares - “An’ it’s only one mech.”

“Yes.” Optimus vents, heavily. “It’s not - it’s not like a battlefield at all. And I just keep thinking - I’m going to see his face, like I see -”

 _Drift’s._ The name goes unspoken between them - it doesn’t need to be said. The absence at their shoulders - the empty space at their side - is loud enough.

“It’s gonna be okay, Optimus.” Ironhide offers. “Not now, maybe, but - eventually. We’ll… we’ll fix things. Jus’ gotta keep ye alive long enough ta build a world he’d be proud’a.”

“Something like that,” Optimus agrees, but he doesn’t sound sure at all.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We’ve apprehended most of the family, at this point.” Legend leans back in his chair as he pings both of them a file - a long, long list of names. “Set watchers around the estate - there’s a offshoot of the family living in Nova Cronum, so we’re waiting for word that they’ve been captured before we make any public moves. Of course, it was hard to keep things entirely private - there were several mechs within the Tower that decided to put up an… armed resistance.” Legend shrugs, dismissively. “Not all were captured alive - but all are, of course, accounted for.”

“Your mechs do good work, Legend.” Optimus reviews the files carefully, obviously deep in thought, before looking up at him. “What comes next, then?”

“Next? Interrogations. We will need to uncover any outside collaborators, any actors among the servants - the former Lord Shroud will, no doubt, have kept this close to the chest, but it’s rare that _no one_ outside a House is aware of the machinations within.” Legend shrugs. “If we are lucky, it will be only minor treasons.”

“Alright.” Optimus vents, heavily, but Legend holds up a hand to continue. 

“I understand that you feel a certain degree of sympathy to him, my Lord Prime, and he is, as yet, untouched as per your orders - but allowing my interrogators access to Lord Mirage would be... helpful.” Legend pauses for a moment before pressing on. “They are highly trained, and I’m sure he could be made to comply with a minimum of discomfort.”

Ironhide makes a noise of protest. “Torturin’ him or no - ye can’t ask tha’, mech. He’s scared enough - puttin’ him in wi’ one of your mechs ain’ gonna do anythin’ but terrorize him.” He waves a hand. “Ye’ve got a good three dozen mechs down there who’ve _actually_ betrayed th’ Prime - make one a’ them talk.”

“I am in agreement with Ironhide in this, Legend.” Optimus nods his helm. “I understand that it may be more difficult, but… Mirage is young, and frightened. You have other options.”

“None who are as likely to give me accurate information as him, my Lord Prime -”

“An’ none who deserve yer roughin’ them round less, mech!” Ironhide thrums his engine menacingly. “He’s a loyal servant o’ th’ Prime’s - slag, if he has’ta answer questions, give ‘im ta me, an’ I’ll ask ‘em.”

“I would hesitate to call him a faithful subject of the Prime’s, Ironhide.” Legend gives a dismissive huff of his vents.

“He warned us ‘bout his sire, mech - slag, he _offered_ ta testify -” Ironhide argues, plating flaring, but Legend cuts him off.

“He attempted to contact one of the servants, during the night.” Legend offers, not looking up from his datapad. “I’ve assigned two of my agents to locate and apprehend the mech -”

“Apprehend him?” Optimus gives Legend a surprised look. “What did Mirage ask him to _do?_ ”

“Do?” That does get Optimus a surprised glance. “Nothing - he warned him that my agents would be coming, told him to flee.” The spymaster shrugs. “It’s of little consequence - he won’t be able to evade us for long.”

“Has…” Optimus pauses, as if remembering, again, how far he is from the docks. “Why are we arresting him, if he hasn’t done anything?”

“We’re not _arresting_ him - we’re taking him into Primal custody. Would you rather he run off, and evade justice entirely?” Legend pauses. “I can have my agents only tail him until you’re ready to have him apprehended, if you’d prefer, but -”

“No, but - how is he evading justice at all? None of the servants have yet been tied to Shroud’s conspiracy - oh.” Optimus’ voice goes very soft with the realization. “Oh - when you say the _whole House -_ ”

“Of course. The servants have their responsibility, too - to ensure that their House doesn’t violate Primus’ mandates. Plenty of assassinations have been foiled by a servant who heard something - the totality of the punishment provides _incentive._ ”

“We’re not going to do that.” Optimus’ engine rumbles lightly, a sign that Ironhide, at least, recognizes as deep frustration. “We aren’t.”

“My Prime…” Legend vents heavily. “The whole house was rusting from the inside - dozens of co-conspirators, the whole family knew what was being planned. To spare the servants -”

“To spare the servants is to do what’s _right_ , Legend. They didn’t know. Even you, thus far, have found no proof of their involvement - Legend, I won’t _sacrifice innocent mechs for this._ ” Optimus’ engine deepens. “Not for my safety, not as some - some _object lesson_ for the other Houses -”

“And this comm? Betraying your agents to help a mech evade judgement -”

“He would hardly be the first abused young lord to have a friend among the House staff, Legend! I’m not going to label him disloyal for something so small, after he has proved his fealty to the primacy so… absolutely.” Optimus shakes his helm. “The servants - don’t let news of what’s happened spread among them - will be pardoned, unless you find _proof_ that they were involved. Mirage…”

“You can’t spare him, Optimus. We’ll be beset from every side - even those loyal to you will see this as a weakness.” Legend lets out a heavy, frustrated vent. “I know you’re inclined to mercy, my Prime, but this is duty -”

“I know.” Optimus slams a first down against the arm of his chair, letting out a haggard snarl of frustration. “I know - Pit take it, Legend, I know. But I won’t be cruel - he _saved my life,_ Legend. Let him have his friend.” He pauses again. “We’ll make the pardon official, before the executions. Make sure he knows -”

He breaks off, voice cracking, and Legend nods. “At your command, my Lord Prime.”

“And leave him in peace, Legend. You can do what you think is necessary with the traitors - but he isn’t to blame, and -” Optimus sags, just a little. “And he doesn’t deserve any of this.”

There’s a long pause - then Legend, at last, bows his helm. “As you command, my Lord. If I might -”

“Go.” Optimus waves a hand. “Thank you for your report, Legend. Dismissed.”

The spymaster bows his helm again, and rises, slipping out of the door as quietly as he’d come.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sit in silence for a klik, giving Legend time to make his way down the hall before Ironhide speaks again. “I could kill ‘im fer ya, Optimus.”

“Ironhide -” Optimus lets out a brusque vent of frustration. “He’s not a bad mech.”

“He’s an evil slagger, Optimus, an’ don’ lie, ‘cause I know you see it, too.” Ironhide gazes at the door, unable to keep the discontent out of his field. “It ain’ his fault, maybe - was raised rusted, or somethin’, some kinda glitch ta make him such a vile fragger, but -”

He heaves a heavy sigh. “You’d be happier wi’ him dead.”

“I’d be dead without him.” The reply doesn’t have any fire behind it, though. “We both would be, probably. I don’t doubt the Prime’sguard - but without the intel he provides…”

“An’ if that happens, we ain’ changin’ slag.” Ironhide huffs, reaching out to let his hand rest on Optimus’ leg. “I know, mech. I just -”

He mimes crushing something in his other hand, and Optimus laughs.

“It won’t be forever, Ironhide. Once we’ve secured our foothold here - once there’s _anymech_ who can handle his job…”

“Heh. Jus’ promise I get ta be there when ye tell ‘im.”

“Sure.” Optimus gives a flash of a fond smile, though his optics are still dark. “Just - do me a favor, ‘Hide?”

“Anythin’,” Ironhide nods back, easily.

“Go check in on Mirage in the morning. It’s not that I don’t trust Legend, it’s just…” Optimus trails off for a klik. “He has a very different idea of what unharmed means than I do, I think.”

“I kin do tha’. I’ll bring ‘im up ta th’ ‘guard cells, if ye’ll let me - keep a closer optic on ‘im, an’ it ain’t like ‘e’s breakin’ out any easier from our cells -” But Optimus is already shaking his helm.

“Leave him.” Ironhide doesn’t bother holding back his growl of protest at that, but Optimus holds up a hand, helplessly. “As long as Legend is behaving appropriately - Ironhide, I’m sorry, but the last thing I can afford right now is war within my own palace. The moment - the _moment_ you remove Mirage from his custody, Legend will be headed up here, saying you’re undermining him -”

“An’ he wouldn’ be wrong.” Ironhide can’t quite fight down the grumble of frustration entirely. “Slag.”

Optimus lets out another heavy vent. “I’m sorry, Ironhide. This -” He pauses for a moment, looking lost, and Ironhide is reminded again of how much _younger_ the Prime is than him, how much of his life has been eaten up by the war- “It’s just -”

“Slagged, mech. ‘S all slagged.” Ironhide agrees, softly. “C’mon - lets get ye off ta yer rooms, Optimus. Th’ nobles will still be there in th’ mornin’ - an’ th’ Senate, an’ th’ Council, an’ all th’ other fraggers. They kin wait - we can spend th’ afternoon t’gether, watch some holos, me an’ Megs can play a couple’a rounds a Tidek...”

“I should -” Optimus hesitates, though. “You’re right. Have Kup make my excuses?”

“Of course, mech. I’ve got ye.” Ironhide sends the comm as he hoists Optimus to his pedes, guides him towards his suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh. When I started writing this this morning I didn't expect it to top 8k words - but it just... Grew. And grew and grew.
> 
> Aaaaa I'm excited to finally write this, though! I've had the basic notes for this planned out since... oh, gosh, ages ago... and it's just been a matter of waiting until it was a good time to stick it somewhere. This is going to be half story and half montage - the first two or three chapters are going to be dealing with Mirage's family, then Hound gets a nice long chapter, then when Mirage takes over from Legend, and finally the scene immediately after Ironhide yells at him during The Talk.
> 
> Timing-wise, this is going to be concurrent with a lot of other things in-universe: Nightbeat hasn't yet been sent to the Pious Pools, Prowl is still in his youngling frame (and not yet an enforcer), and Ratchet has only been gone for around a centivorn or two. I have to defuckerize the timelines a little, b/c I think there's some event squeeze going on, but for reference, this is about three centivorns before the events in Nyon that will result in Ironhide meeting Hot Rod. Chronologically, it's the earliest origin story I have planned, unless I do something for Optimus and Megatron (which would be it's own whole 200k+ story, probably, and which I'm steadfastly not planning, which means it will almost certainly happen.)
> 
> Anyways! I hope you guys enjoy!~ Hopefully this will explain a whole lot about Mirage :D And Ops in general. Keep in mind, though - while OP has been Prime for several millennia at this point, he's spent almost none of that time on Cybertron - so this is still very much Sentinel's Ops. It's very different (and much larger than) the modern version we've met.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I don't regularly warn for stuff, so the standard precautions for unwarned fic still applies, but there's minor non-physical torture and a (consentual, non-sexual) whipping in this chapter. The torture takes place in the first section, the whipping in the last; neither results in serious injury.

It’s mid-morning before Ironhide manages to get away from his duties, the next cycle, handing Optimus off to Kup with a tired grin. He doesn’t linger once he’s free, however, and it doesn’t take long before he’s infiltrated Ops, riding the long elevator down to the sixth subfloor.

He’s greeted by a sort of organized pandemonium, as he steps off. It’s busy - far more busy than he’s used to seeing the Ops levels; prisoners being moved, and a double-handful of agents working through datapads.

It doesn’t take long to locate Legend - the tall, green mech stands out among his own, dark-paletted subordinates - and Ironhide meanders over as a scream splits the air.

“Ironhide.” Legend doesn’t bother keeping the distaste out of his voice entirely as he bows his helm in greeting. “What brings you to my levels?”

“Legend.” Ironhide bows his helm in similar disdain. “Optimus asked me ta -” Another piercing shriek echoes down the hall, followed by garbled, incoherent pleading. It trails on, thoroughly distracting, and Ironhide pauses his speech until it, at last, cuts off.

“Primus. What th’ slag are ya expectin’ ta get outta that one?” he can’t resist asking, gesturing down the hall curiously.

“From him?” Legend sniffs, lip curling in amusement. “Nothing of worth - he was a minor player. Aware, but I doubt he was involved in any real way. And torture tends to spoil any information gathered - though I believe he offered Turnstile a few names that will need further investigation, early on. But the rest of them -” and there’s something hard and awful in his gaze that makes Ironhide want to lash out and slam his helm into a wall as he gestures to the cells - “they’re listening. And when I come to them - they’ll talk.”

“Yer a foul sack o’ slag, an’ every drop o’ energon wasted on ye’d be better drained inta a crack on th’ ground, Leg’.” But he keeps his tone conversational, and Legend doesn’t even flinch - it’s far from the first time Ironhide has made his opinion known. “Where’s th’ kid?”

“The kid?” Legend gives him a look of confusion, and Ironhide growls deep in his chest. 

“Yeah - th’ kid. M’rage - th’ little assassin’ta’be. I wanna see him.” Another scream cuts the air between them shrilly, and Legend’s smirk edges on a sneer.

“Oh. Of course.” He waves a hand, and Ironhide follows him down the hall. “He is, of course, unharmed - per Optimus’ orders.”

“Glad ta hear it.” They come to a stop in front of a heavy cell door, and Ironhide gestures to it. “I need ta talk to him.”

Legend steps past him, keys in a code - then another - and the door unlocks. He steps aside with a sweeping nod of his helm. “Go right ahead.”

Ironhide pushes the door to the cell open - unobtrusively blocking Legend’s view into the room as he does so - and steps inside, waiting until the door has clicked shut behind him to scan the room. There’s nothing in it - no furniture, not even a pad to recharge on - nothing but a slight frame huddled in one corner.

“M’rage?” He calls, quietly, not sure if the other mech is in recharge or not - but the mech lets out a terrified sob, a ragged, rough noise, and curls away. “Slag, kid, are you -”

A horrific wail echoes through the room, and Ironhide’s plating flares - the sound is _close_ , too close, and directly above - 

It takes a moment to realize that the cries aren’t coming from above at all - they’re trailing down the vents - and another shriek has Mirage crying out, a spark-wrenching, pained noise -

“ _I’m sorry!_ ” His face rises, for the first time, from where it’s curled into his arms, stares up at the vent, optics bright with fear - “Please, please, _I’m sorry, I’m **sorry**_ -”

“Primus.” It’s all Ironhide can think to say as the horror strikes him - he drops to one knee, lowering his whole frame to the younger mech’s level as best as he can before inching towards him, reaching out. “Primus, kid, no - no, it’s not your fault -”

Mirage seems too distracted by the screams to even notice him, and Ironhide is careful as he gets close enough to touch the smaller frame. Mirage flinches back as his hand brushes a shoulder, gaze locking on his, and his whole face collapses with fright.

“No - no, please, I didn’t want to - I didn’t mean to - don’t let them -” His fans are whirling so hard as to be audible, clicking in their casings as they overclock, and Ironhide catches his shoulder and half-drags the lighter noblemech forwards to wrap an arm around him.

“Ain’t gonna - yer gonna be fine, mech, they ain’ gonna hurt ye, Optimus’d never allow it -” He can feel how desperately the other mech wants to pull away, the curdled terror in his field, and forces calm into his own, shoving back anger. “C’mon, yer comin’ wit’ me.” 

Mirage is lighter than a soldier - and it’s not the first time Ironhide has dragged a shell-shocked young mech to his pedes, helped him walk away from a screaming - friend? Family member? He tugs him towards the door, slams a fist on it - “Legend?”

There’s a click, as the door unlocks. Legend, wisely, is standing across the hall when it opens - Ironhide has to fight to keep down the fury at the other mech’s impassive gaze. “Ironhide?”

“I’m transferrin’ him ta Prime’sguard custody.” He doesn’t leave any room in his words for an argument. “Prime’s orders, effective ‘mmediately. Comm him if ye gotta.”

There’s a moment’s pause - Legend raises a single hand for just a klik as he confirms the order before glancing back at Ironhide, surprised. “Of course, Ironhide.”

“C’mon, kid.” He begins half-nudging, half-carrying Mirage towards the elevator when Legend calls after him:

“Do you intend to, ah - cuff him?” 

“Nah, Leg, I’m sure I kin take ‘im.” He ignores the agent stoicly beyond that as the elevator chimes to a halt, doors sliding open and offering him an escape from the distant screams of the corridor. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Getting the slight mech up to the Prime’sguard’s levels isn’t hard - Mirage follows him almost clingily, so closely that he’s pressed to Ironhide’s frame. He doesn’t seem to even contemplate bolting, even with his hands and pedes unbound, and Ironhide leads him to the Prime’sguard holding cells with a gentle field and a warm, reassuring hand on his back.

The cell he guides Mirage to isn’t luxurious by any means - but it’s nothing like the Ops cell, either. There’s color to the walls, a soft, warm brown, and a berth - blanketless, but that’s easily remedied. There’s a chair, too, large enough for Ironhide, if he wants to sit - and a switch to let Mirage control the lights, unless a guard chooses to override it.

Just seeing the room makes the younger mech relax, plating slumping in relief.

“Ain’t much, but ye’ll be comfortable, at least.” Ironhide gives an approving nod as he nudges the smaller frame forwards so he can fit in the room. “Give ye a little peace.”

“Thank you.” Mirage hesitates, just for a moment, before approaching the berth, settling nervously on it - when Ironhide doesn’t reprimand him, just settles onto the chair beside the berth, he pulls his knees up to his chest, curling into the corner behind him. Ironhide gives him a klik, not wanting to push - until, at last, he hears a soft sniffle from the miserable-looking huddle.

“Mech, are you…” He pauses, then slides off the chair to sit on the end of the berth, where he can reach out and brush a hand across Mirage’s knees. “Kid…”

MIrage looks up, frightened optics not enough to distract from the wet tracts of tears. “I’m sorry -” he blurts out, looking panicked, and Ironhide catches him by the shoulder, carefully drags his unresisting frame closer.

“It’s alright to cry, mech. No one’s gonna think yer a traitor fer not wantin' yer family ta get tortured.” But Mirage shakes his helm, and his optics are dim and haunted as they stare up at Ironhide. 

“I - I’ll tell you whatever you want, just - please -” His hands open and close helplessly, as if even _he’s_ not sure what he’s begging for: stop hurting them? Don’t hurt me? Don’t make me listen? It’s impossible for Ironhide to tell, and he reaches out to stroke the smaller mech’s back soothingly.

“It’s gonna be alright, kid. I’m - slag, I’m sorry Legend pulled tha’ scrap wi’ you, it was outta line - but…”

“They earned it.” There’s a vicious conviction, and _hate_ , buried under the fear. “I _know_ \- I _know_ they did, but -” His helm slumps lower, and Ironhide can make out the tears welling in his optics.

“They’re gonna go ta Primus, kid. He’ll spare th’ ones tha’ jus’ went astray, an’ th’ mechs who did this ta yer family’ll dance in th’ Pit. Th’ Prime’s a good mech - he’ll intercede fer all’a ye, I know.” It’s not much comfort to offer the other mech, but…

“Will it -” Mirage’s voice cuts off, and when he speaks again, his voice is very quiet, and very _young._ “Will it hurt?”

Ironhide’s spark _aches_ in his chest - impulsively, he drags the small frame closer, tucking him under his shoulder protectively. “No, mech, no -” He pauses, hesitating, and he can feel the same coiled fear in the other mech’s field.

“If ye do get executed… mech, I’m th’ captain o’ th’ Prime’sguard. I’d be doin’ th’ killin’.” Mirage tenses against him even more, plating locking up, and Ironhide pushes steady assurance into his field. “An’ I promise ye, ye won’ feel nothin’. I’ll make it quick, an’ ye’ll be wit’ Primus, an’ there ain’ no hurtin’ there.” He’s known other mechs who have drawn executions out - he never has.

He strokes Mirage’s back again, soothingly, letting his engine rumble gently, as the smaller mech’s plating slowly loosens, his field steadying - “Oh.” Mirage pauses, for a klik. “Thank you, sir.”

Ironhide reaches across himself to brush a hand, gently, along the noble’s helm, thumb wiping away a few still-damp tears. “I know it’s slag, kid. An’ I’m sorry this is how you gotta be repaid fer doin’ th’ right thing.”

“I…” Mirage hesitates, pressing into Ironhide’s side a little more. “I knew the penalty for treason, sir. I - I don’t want to die, but assassinating the Prime - it’s not _right -_ I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t let them -”

“You did th’ right thing. It’s hard.” Ironhide thrums his engine. “It’s a slaggin’ cold world we live in, where a sire’ll do tha’ to his kin - an’ your sire knew, too, knew wha’ he was draggin’ his whole fraggin’ House inta.”

He pauses, debating whether he should say anything, but… with Mirage right there, still so helplessly vulnerable… “Yer friend got away.”

Mirage’s whole field spikes with alarm - his optics shoot up, going nearly incandescent with fear. “What -”

“Sh, sh - he’s alright, you’re alright, you ain’t in trouble, kid. Prime was gonna pardon th’ servants anyways, ‘less Legend turns up any proof tha’ they were involved - he an’ I an’ Legend are th’ only mechs tha’ know you sent th’ message out, an’ he’s already tol’ Legend ta step off. Yer friend’s gonna be fine, an’ - well, ye can’t get in any _more_ slag than ye are already.” Ironhide shrugs. “Thought ye’d want ta know, though.”

“I - yes.” And there’s a fierce, deep relief in Mirage’s field. “Primus - thank you. Thank you, sir.”

Ironhide holds Mirage for another klik as the younger mech relaxes again. “I can’t stay forever, kid. Gotta go take care of some slag - but I’ll come back, alright? Keep ye company. An’ ye’ll be safe here - Legend ain’t gonna lay a finger on ye.”

“Alright.” He can feel Mirage’s reluctance, but the noble obediently pulls away - and Ironhide huffs a heavy vent.

“Here - c’mon -” He guides Mirage to his pedes, and over to the berth, settling him down carefully. “Give me a klik -”

All it takes is a quick comm, and a moment later, there’s a tapping on the door. Mirage’s gaze shoots to it uneasily, but Ironhide pats his shoulder reassuringly, and gives the guard - an older aerial named Pivot - a businesslike nod as he takes a pair of folded blankets and a warmed cube from the mech. He settles the cube on the floor as he shakes out the blankets while Mirage watches in surprise. 

“Ain’t gonna leave you ta freeze, kid.” He tucks the first blanket over Mirage’s shoulders - and the more lightly-armored frame’s relief is palpable as he tugs it a little more snuggly around himself. “Ain’t gonna let you starve, either. Here.”

He offers the cube, and Mirage’s hands only shake a little as he accepts it. He lifts it to his lips, and gulps it down like a half-starved guttermech - Ironhide makes a point of not staring, and ignores the flicker of humiliation when the noble finally manages to lower the mostly drained cube.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s alright, kid. There’ll be more this evenin’. You ain’t hurtin’ anywhere, are you?” He hasn’t seen any indications of it - but with the way Mirage’s frame has been shaking, he can’t guarantee there’s nothing he’s missed.

“My hip -” But Mirage cuts himself off, curling into the blanket a little more. “It’s not too bad. There’s not much point in fixing it, if -” He falls off entirely, unable to say the words himself, but Ironhide shakes his helm. 

“It’s gonna be an orn or two ‘fore anythin’ happens - no point in ye sittin’ ‘round hurtin’. I’m gonna have a medic come an’ take a look, ‘right? Make sure you ain’t sittin’ on a cracked strut, or somethin’.” He pauses, meeting Mirage’s yellow optics. “Jus’ cause this is slagged don’ mean we gotta be cruel ‘bout it, kid.”

“Thank you, sir.” There’s something unreadable in Mirage’s voice, something that Ironhide doesn’t want to think too deeply on.

“Look - get some recharge. I’ll see what I’ve got fer datapads - get you somethin’ ta read, somethin’ ta listen to, so you’re not jus’ stuck in here thinkin’ - you’ll be okay. An’ -” Ironhide hesitates, not sure what to say, but… “An’ it’s gonna be okay, kid. Yer gonna be okay.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kup is at attention, guarding the door to the Prime’s audience chambers, when Ironhide makes his way into the antechamber.

“Ironhide.” The older mech nods a greeting - but Ironhide doesn’t return it. He knows his field must be crackling with temper - can see the way it knocks Kup back a step as he approaches with the force of it. “Optimus is in there with Legend right now -”

“Good.” Ironhide half-snarls the word, unable to control it. “Tha’s who I’m here ta see.”

He doesn’t quite shove Kup out of the way - they’ve been friends too long for that - but he lets his engine rip threat, and Kup, wisely, steps aside.

Optimus and Legend are both deep in conversation when he enters the room - Legend rises to his pedes, seeing him, but Ironhide doesn’t give him a chance to voice whatever worthless complaints he’s thought up. He crosses the room in three long strides and slams his fist - satisfyingly, so satisfyingly - into Legend’s face.

It’s not enough to kill the spymaster, hardly enough to daze him as he sweeps to his pedes, frame low, ready for a fight - but Ironhide has no intention of giving him one, no intention of letting this be anything other than the beating he _craves._ He’s fought too many assassins for the feint Legend attempts to work - he reaches out, grabs Legend by the throat, and tosses him into a wall with a dense _crack._

He doesn’t let up - before Legend can rise, Ironhide is on him, one hand pinning the arm that’s gone for a knife, the other cupping Legend’s whole helm, slamming it into the wall - and then again, harder -

“Ironhide! _Stop!_ ”

Optimus’ voice cuts the air like a dagger - cuts through his rage like nothing else, and Ironhide stills, Legend’s frame gone limp in his grasp. “Optimus -”

“Let him go, Ironhide.” There’s all the clarity of an order to the words, and Ironhide tosses Legend aside, turning to face Optimus, fans heaving with the force of controlling his rage. “Stand down - _both_ of you, stand down.”

Legend, wisely, doesn’t move - not until Ironhide has stepped away from him, struggling to master his field. Even then, he rises slowly - cautiously - keeping his back to the wall and as far from Ironhide as he can be. One of his fans clicks uselessly, and there’s the whine of damaged belting from his chest - but that’s minor compared to the optic gone entirely dark.

Optimus’ gaze is concerned, as it examines him - a concern that doesn’t fade as his attention resettles on Ironhide. “Ironhide - what is this?”

“This is what th’ slagger _deserves_ , Optimus.” He turns his helm to snarl in naked threat at Legend, who - gratifyingly - looks earnestly alarmed. “You _know_ I’m loyal, Optimus - but I need ye ta decide what you’re gonna do wi’ that kid, an’ do it t’day, ‘cause leavin’ him ta suffer _ain’ right_.”

“To suffer?” Optimus gives Legend a wide-opticked look. “Legend -”

“None of my mechs laid a _hand_ on him, Prime. As you ordered!”

“ _ **Ye were pipin' in th’ sound o th’ mech’s own family bein’ tortured!**_ ” Ironhide can’t help it - he roars the words. “Ye don’ call that torture?”

“Ironhide!” Optimus’ voice rises again. “Stand down! Sit!” The order leaves no room for argument - and in a stride, Ironhide is settling, obediently, into the chair beside the Prime.

Who rises, leaves him, and approaches Legend. There’s a discussion - brief, very brief - that he’s not privy to, and Optimus offers him a hand to rise, helps the green mech limp over to his fallen chair. There’s no mistaking the hate in the other mech’s optics as he sinks into the righted seat - a simmering loathing that Ironhide does his best to match.

“Ironhide.” His name carries just a hint of reprimand, and Ironhide ducks his helm, chastened - but Optimus doesn’t tell him off further. Instead he gestures for Ironhide to speak.

“Th’ kid - if we’ve gotta off ‘im -” Ironhide vents, heavily. “If we’ve gotta off ‘im, then _fine_ \- give me th’ order, an’ I’ll go an’ make sure he’s ready an’ have his helm off t’night - or next cycle, maybe, ‘pendin’ if he needs a little time. But if we ain’t - Optimus, kid doesn’ deserve to die. He saved yer _spark_.”

“And Primus rewards those who do their duty - _in the Well._ ” Legend interjects, voice tight with annoyance, and edged with pain. “Leaving him alive will put _our Prime_ in greater danger, Ironhide - would embolden every Lord with the power to _strike -_ ”

“Enough.” Optimus raises his hand, the single word falling like a whip crack through the air between them.

“ _I know your thoughts on the matter, Legend._ ” And there’s a terrible rumble to his voice, one that Ironhide has only rarely heard - the deep and commanding authority of a Prime. “I didn’t _ask_ for them again.”

He pauses, for a long, long moment, helm low. “Ironhide is right - Mirage did save my spark; he deserves whatever mercy we can find for him. I am _the Prime -_ what are my options? If I decide not to have him executed - which is still, I believe, my right - _what can be done?_ ”

Legend pauses for a silent klik, the only sound the clicking of his damaged fans. “It… is your right, of course, to sentence enemies of the Primacy. You are the Prime. Your pardon is absolute - though to use it to protect an assassin is… unprecedented. You need only give the word, and his life would be spared.” He glances away. “From there… well. He is a lord - he answers to you, and you alone. Of course, with his House gone, he will be of little use to you - you might dispose of him to one of your more remote estates, as an administrator, perhaps, if you wished to further favor him.” Legend hesitates, then shrugs. “You could give him to me. He has… potential.”

Ironhide rumbles his engines threateningly, but Optimus raises a hand between them, gesturing him back. “Perhaps not.” He contemplates the matter thoughtfully, optics distant. “If he still lives, could he not inherit his House?”

“To - what, preserve it?” Legend gives him a wide-opticked _stare_ that Ironhide has _never_ seen on the other mech before. “My Prime, you would be placing a potential assassin - one whose family you had just had _killed_ \- in a seat of tremendous power. Perhaps were he from one of the lesser Houses, but the House of Twisted Glass is no minor House - their allies are numerous, their resources extensive, if he chose to oppose you -”

“Would he choose tha’, though?” Ironhide cuts the other mech off ruthlessly. “No’ tha’ I’m sayin’ ye should do tha’, I mean, but everythin’ I’ve been hearin’ from th’ kid says he’s a loyal servant o’ th’ Prime’s. Slag - he got ‘is whole family _killed_ ta protect Optimus - an’ he doesn’ talk like he was expectin’ tha’ ta win him any favors.”

“I would need to speak to him, of course.” Optimus dips his helm in concession to Legend. “But - I do not believe that he would be a disloyal subject, Legend. He seems entirely sincere in his devotion, and every argument against placing him at the helm of his house - well, he would be a powerful ally among the nobility if he _were_ to favor me, would be not?”

“He would…” Legend’s acknowledgement is begrudging, but thoughtful. “A useful tool, certainly. But there is still the matter of the rest of the Lords, my Prime - if they think your commitment is wavering, they will not hesitate to strike. Sparing him -”

“Do you believe the other Houses knew of Shroud’s intentions?” Optimus interrupts.

“No, my Prime.” That answer, at least, Legend offers confidently. “They would have betrayed him, had they known - there is no advantage supporting him could win that would be worth the risk of his failing, and naming them as co-conspirators.”

“Then… do they need to be executed at all?” Optimus asks, gesturing. “I’m sure you could think of - I don’t know. Some excuse -”

“And preserve the House’s honor for your little Lord?” That thought does seem to intrigue Legend. “It wouldn’t need to be anything complicated - a tragic train derailment, perhaps. No one will ask questions - once it’s made clear that you had… withdrawn your favor.” He pauses, then smirks. “And the other Lords will be… perhaps more eager to fall in line. A thought.”

“One worth thinking about, Legend. I will talk to him next cycle - Ironhide, I leave it to you to see things arranged? Once I have a clearer vision of him, we will speak again, Legend. If his loyalty seems unflinching, his House’s support is worth striving for - if not, I’m sure I can find him a comfortable position _somewhere_ where he can do no harm.” He gestures at Legend, who rises, achingly, to his pedes and bows deeply. “You are dismissed - go get that seen to. Ironhide - remain.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sit in silence for almost a breem, Optimus obviously composing himself - Ironhide can feel the stress in his frame, the tight lines of his plating.

Finally, the Prime speaks, not looking at him directly. “That was… rash, Ironhide.”

“He deserved it.”

“Be that as it may…” Optimus vents heavily. “We need his support. The two of you quarrelling…”

“It weren’t quarrelling.” Ironhide knows that he’s not persuading anyone, least of all himself, but he sets his frame mulishly. “He was outta line. I was givin' ‘im a reminder a’ his place.”

“He is of equal rank to you -”

But Ironhide shakes his helm. “Not next’a me - if he was jus’ bein’ an aft, I wouldn’a touched ‘im. You know tha’, Optimus.” It’s the only reason that Legend is still alive - the fact that, despite his frustration with the mech, Optimus hasn’t let him loose on the other commander. “But tha’ - he wasn’ doin’ it ‘cause he didn’ know it was wrong. Tha’ was - he was testin’ ye. Testin’ me, maybe. Wanted ta know what ye’d do if he walked right up t’ th’ line wi’ ye.” 

Ironhide hesitates just a moment before sliding out of his chair, sinking to a knee. “I’ll take whatever punishment ye wanna give me - but I wasn’ gonna let him trap ye like that.”

Optimus makes a soft noise. “Ironhide - no -”

“I won’ hold it against ye, Optimus. I knew what I was doin’.” Ironhide meets the younger mech’s optics. “Ye got ta order somethin’ - ‘less ye _do_ want war ‘tween me an’ Leg. Kup c’n handle it - can make it look worse than it is, if ye want.” 

“I don’t want -” Optimus hesitates, then squeezes his optics shut. “What would be… appropriate?”

“It don’ hafta be a lot.” Ironhide presses assurance into his field. “Jus’ enough tha’ Legend doesn’ feel yer lettin’ me havin’ a go at him go entir’ly unremarked. Ten or so lashes, if ye ain’ tha’ slagged. More’n ‘bout fifty, I might start b’grudgin’ it a bit.”

That gets an unhappy laugh, and Ironhide reaches out, rests a hand on the Prime’s knee until Optimus meets his optics again. “It’s fine, mech. I earned it - an’ swear ta Primus, I ain’t gonna mind. Frame like mine - it won’ be bad.”

“Twenty, then.” He can see Optimus seeking approval in his gaze, and he quirks a smile.

“Ten fer slaggin’ Leg, an’ ten fer puttin’ ye ta th’ trouble?” He chuckles, rising to his pedes. “Seriously, Optimus - don’ worry ‘bout it. Ain’t no bit o whippin’ tha’s gonna hurt more than th’ pleasure o’ seein’ Leg _scared._ I’ll ferget a whippin’ - he’s gonna be rememberin’ th’ feelin’ o’ my fingers ‘round ‘is throat a long, long time.”

“Should I…” Optimus hesitates. “Should I watch?”

“If ye want ta.” Ironhide shrugs. “Won’ bother me none, either way. Ye don’ gotta, mech - this ain’ a road I haven’ walked down.”

“I feel like I should, but -” Optimus trails off again, and Ironhide steps forwards to rest a hand on his shoulder, brushing a thumb along the smooth line of his neck. 

“Let me call Kup, Optimus. It’s th’ not knowin’ tha’s worst of all.” He gives a soft snort of amusement. “Primus knows what you’ll imagine, if I let ye. It won’ be bad - a breem o’ hurtin’, an’ it’s done.”

“...Alright.” Optimus bows his helm in acquiescence, and Ironhide, still gently stroking his neck, comms Kup.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Well, you’re a dumb fragger, aren’t you.” Kup strides into the room, an electrowhip in one hand, and crosses his arms. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse the disrespect, Prime.”

Optimus, looking deeply unhappy, nods, regardless, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”

That gets a laugh from Kup. “So - what the slag did you do to Legend?” 

“Slagged him.” Ironhide lets out a soft chuckle, dropping to one knee before the other mech. “He was gettin’ mouthy.”

“Hmph. Can’t say I blame you.” Kup glances up at Optimus, gaze softening as he takes in the state of his field. “Oh. You haven’t…” Kup tosses the whip to Ironhide, who catches it easily. “You haven’ had to do this before, have you?”

Optimus shakes his helm wordlessly.

“It’s not gonna break him, Prime. Hurts like white fire while it’s happening, but getting shot is worse, and lasts longer. This is…” He shrugs a little, waving a hand. “This is just life.”

“You do this often, then?” Optimus’ voice is quiet.

“Not very.” It’s Ironhide who answers that. “Floggin’ is - well, it’s a noble’s sport, really. Ain’ much call fer it, wit’ the trainees - by th’ time we’d be lookin’ at floggin’ one’a them as punishment, we’re kickin’ em out, an’ there ain’ a point ta it.” He pauses. “But ‘ccassionally, one’a th’ kids’ll cross a Lord, or frag off a Senator, an’ a good floggin’ll shut them up ‘fore they can get askin’ fer somethin’ stricter.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s what it is.” Kup shrugs sympathetically. “It gets things over with, and most of the Lords are so shocked by the spectacle that they forget to demand any kind of real satisfaction.”

“Some’a th’ Senators are bloodthirsty, though.” Ironhide snorts in disgust. “I’ll point ‘em out, if there’s ever a problem - ye’ve got th’ right ta veto anythin’ they suggest, since we’re yer guard.”

“Do.” Optimus puts the firmness of a command behind the word. “So this -”

“Will satisfy a high-born slagger like Legend. He goes off an’ feels like he got his, I don’ slam ‘im inta any more walls, an’ you get a little peace ‘til the next time ‘e feels like torturin’ an innocent kid.” Ironhide grins. “At which point I reserve th’ right ta start th’ whole cycle over -”

“Give me that.” Kup interrupts with a laugh, snatching the whip from him. “Primus.”

There’s a hum of energy, and that’s all the warning Ironhide gets before an arc of white-hot energy carves itself across his shoulders.

He lets out a grunt - more of surprise, than anything - and shoots a glare at the teal mech before looking up to meet Optimus’ optics. “Ain’ that bad -” He offers the other mech a smile that bares dentae, and then another curve of energy lances across his frame. This time, he doesn’t more than flinch.

It is - of course - agonizing. He can feel his nanites dying, leaving thin grey lines across his armor - and all the reinforced plating on Cybertron isn’t enough to diffuse the pain of the energy rippling through it. But he’s felt worse - much, much worse - and having a number helps, some, takes away the dread of not knowing when the pain will stop.

He’s been whipped like that before - often enough to know to hate it.

He manages to hold his composure to the end, counting the stripes - but he can’t hide the way his whole frame slumps as the final blow lands, at knowing that it’s over. Optimus lets out a soft, distressed noise, drops down to catch him, and Ironhide can only grin up at him through the lingering burn.

“See? Ain’ that bad.”

Optimus lets out a choked cry, and buries his helm in Ironhide’s shoulder, dragging him into an embrace. _That_ costs Ironhide a bit more effort - the touch against his armor drags a sea of stinging pain across it, but he wraps an arm across Optimus’ back to give him an awkward pat.

“‘S fine, mech. I’m fine. Ain’t gonna do tha’ to ye again, okay? But ye did good - it weren’ tha’ bad.”

::Should I give the two of you some privacy?:: Kup pings him, after a minute.

::No, stay. I’m gonna have ta leave ‘im wit’ you in a breem.:: Kup makes a noise of protest, and Ironhide pings back negation. ::Wasn’ much point ta tha’ if nomech sees me ‘fore my nanites recover. I kin take care o’ a couple’a thin’s, an’ make sure tha’ th’ appropriate rumors is circulatin'.::

Kup doesn’t seem entirely happy with that, but he doesn’t argue, either, and Ironhide is willing to be content with that. He holds Optimus for another few kliks, field warm and fond, before, at last, he pulls away.

“I gotta go let th’ kid know, if yer gonna want ta talk ta him this cycle, Prime. Prob’ly gonna take a joor or so ta get ‘im settled ‘nuff ta do anythin’ but panic, seein’ ye…” Optimus gives a soft, reluctant noise, but lets him go, and rises to his pedes as Ironhide steps away.

“Of course. And… Kup and I should go visit Truncheon, make sure that he and the other guards are being taken care of…”

Kup gives an approving nod. “That’s the spirit, kid. We’ll go terrorize the younglings together - Trunch is a great artist, ask him to show you his sketches, he’ll be mortified.” He brushes a hand over Optimus’ shoulder as Ironhide takes his leave, the burn across his shoulders already fading back to nothing more than a staticky pain, like crystallization beneath his plates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. Only half a chapter, this time - as this thing stretched on beyond 9k words I decided to split it, so consider this part one of two, and I guess I'm upping the chapter count... -_- Because of that this chapter will probably undergo minor edits when I post the next one; I'll add a note at the start if it's anything big.
> 
> Oh my god, you would not _believe_ how cathartic it was to have Ironhide beat the shit out of Legend. I've had ideas simmering for this mech for like two months, now, and trust me, I _enjoyed_ that. Of course, then Ironhide had to talk Optimus into punishing him - but that's political, not anything Optimus wanted to do...
> 
> That's one of the things that's always stuck me about Optimus, honestly: For all that he's politically powerful, for all that he's got the best of intentions in mind, he flinches from doing what needs to be done. Something like having Ironhide whipped - does it make sense, politically? Yeah - letting him go unpunished would be the same as saying he's fine with Ironhide attacking one of his fellow commanders. In some ways, it's good - by the time of the main plot, for example, you can see that he's softened a lot of the hard edges on Ops, and in Iacon generally - but I feel like in a more politically compelling narrative that's a huge weak point, one that has to be covered for by his supporters. 
> 
> He also seems very much the type of mech who forgets that having ultimate power means _having ultimate power_ , and that if he doesn't want to execute someone he can just _tell Legend to fuck off._ Other Primes have _for sure_ ignored way more important advice from their councilors... :D
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind comments last chapter! I'm glad so many of you were willing to join me in MIRAGE HELL (though tbh this is very much IRONHIDE HELL also) even though I know he's not as popular as J&P :D


	4. Chapter 4

He makes sure he’s seen as he works his way back to the Prime’sguard’s corridors - takes a winding, circuitous route that makes sure that word of his punishment will get back to Legend. It’s only once he reaches the security of Prime’sguard territory that he lets his dour expression lighten to a smirk. 

He’s collected more than a few watchers by the time he ambles into the med-bay, a couple of wide-opticked younger guards too new to remember Sentinel - and more than a handful of sympathetic gazes from more senior members who aren’t. Ambulon’s optics narrow as he comes in.

“What do you want?”

It’s unusually hostile, even for the normally reserved medic, and Ironhide holds his hands up defensively. “Primus, mech - bit o’ a harsh reception!”

“It would be friendlier if I hadn’t spent the last cycle patching your guards back together - _after_ Legend stole half of my nurses. Tell him I expect them back _untraumatized_ , by the way - now what have you done to yourse-” Ambulon cuts off with a hiss at the sight of the whip-marks, grey across his back. “Primus.”

“Yeah, me an’ Leg ain’ on speakin’ terms, at th’ moment.”

Ambulon’s whole field flushes with sympathy, and his fingers, when they brush across the metal, are light. “Are you…” He vents again. “Primus.”

“It ain’ too bad. I earned it.” He grins, just a little. “Punched ‘im right in ‘is stupid face. An’ some other stuff.” He casts a glance at the doorway, where a handful of bolder mechs are staring at him. “I promise - ‘e had th’ worse of it.”

“Idiot.” But Ambulon turns to rummage through a drawer, returning with a spray-can. “Here -”

He applies the spray in a wide swath - it’s cold as it scatters across Ironhide’s armor, but the worst of the ache fades. “It’ll take at least a cycle for those nanites to repopulate -” He pauses, touching up the application with a little spritz. “Probably two. You’re going to be grey until then, unfortunately.”

“That’s th’ point, yeah.” It’s not long - just enough to make sure Optimus’ displeasure with him is obvious - but the fact that he’s announced so publicly the _why_ of it means that the reasoning will spread, and his Prime’sguard, at least, will understand that attacking a fellow commander couldn’t go unanswered.

“Fair enough.” Ambulon doesn’t look entirely satisfied by that, but he steps back. “Will you be doing anything else idiotic today? Should I have a berth prepped?”

“Nah. Prime’ll be through, in a bit - wants ta visit Trunch an’ tha’ lot. Kup’ll have an’ optic on ‘im.” Ironhide gives him a grin. “If ye could drop a mention o’ how I’m completely fine where ‘e can hear ye -”

“I’ll make sure he knows.” Ambulon nods, and then waves him off. “Shoo, you. Out of my ‘bay.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin -” Ironhide laughs as he’s chased into the hall, his watchers scrambling off to look busy as he goes.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cells are more private, at least - the itch of curious gazes fades as he approaches. He nods a greeting to Pivot as he enters. 

“Hey, boss.” The aerial returns the gesture, sitting up as he approaches and setting his datapad aside.

“Hey, mech.” He glances at the cells with a wave. “Kid do anythin’ interestin’ while I was gone?”

“Not really.” Pivot shrugs. “Couldn’t get anyone from medical to come down - I guess Ops ran off with a bunch of our medics, they’re swamped - so I got Xebec and Camshaft down here to keep an optic on things, and took a look at him myself. Managed to fix up the welds, tidy things up a bit - and I think I managed to reset that gear in his hip rotator, it was moving a lot smoother after, but I have no idea if that was the actual problem.”

“Tha’s good. He seemed comfer'table, at least? Get any recharge?”

“I slipped him another pain chip - just something mild, for the aches - and grabbed him a cushion. He didn’t seem the type to try anything - figured it was safe enough. He’s either sleeping or faking - buried his helm in it and hasn’t moved since.” Pivot pauses, meeting his optics. “His field feels like slag, sir. Completely ragged.”

“Yeah - Ops was havin’ a go at ‘im. Pipin' in screamin’ - ‘s why I brought ‘im up here. Didn’ touch ‘im, but it shook ‘im up good…” It’s easy to see the way Pivot’s optics darken at that - they both know what Ops does well enough to hate it.

“Fraggers.”

“Don’ worry - I… expressed my distaste ta Legend.” Ironhide turns to head into the cellblocks proper, and grins at the hiss that his back gets from Pivot - glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk. “It was worth every one.”

He makes his way down the hall to Mirage’s cell quietly - none of the other cells are in use, at the moment, but he doesn’t feel like letting a stray pedestep disturb the mech. When he reaches the cell proper, he pauses, and accesses one of the ceiling cameras to view the room.

It’s basically as Pivot described - Mirage, huddled onto the berth, clinging desperately to the pillow in his arms, face buried against it. There’s a tangle of blankets around him, but Ironhide can tell from the feed alone that he’s trembling - from recharge terrors, or waking ones, he can’t say.

He knocks lightly on the door before opening it. “Kid - you awake?” On the feed, there’s a slow shifting, then a stir - not faking recharge, then, or at least, if he is, doing it well. He knocks gently again, and Mirage’s helm rises - the young noble says something barely coherent to the door, and Ironhide pushes it open.

“Hey, M’rage.” The young lord is looking improved, a little - still tired, but the worst of the terror has bled from his expression, and he looks like he’s gotten at least some rest.

“Hello again, sir.” Ironhide walks over to settle in the chair, careful not to let Mirage catch a glance at his back, and Mirage gives him a curious look. “You weren’t gone for very long…”

“I had some business ta take care o’ - but I dealt wi’ it.. How’re ye feelin’ - you get any ‘charge?”

Mirage nods politely. “Some. Thank you for having someone come look at my leg, sir - it feels much better.”

“I’m glad.” Ironhide gives the smaller mech an encouraging smile - something non-threatening. “Tell me if anythin’ else starts buggin’ ye - like I said, there ain’ no reason ta short ye on repairs, kid.”

“Yes, sir.” It’s a polite response - but a reserved one; it’s obvious that the rest he’s gotten has been enough for Mirage to rally to a noble’s manners - and their reticence. 

“I had a meetin’ wi’ th’ Prime.” There’s no point in putting off telling the younger mech, so Ironhide scrubs off the solder. “He wants an audience wit’ ye. Personal-like.” 

_That’s_ unexpected enough to blow through his composure.Mirage’s whole frame gives away his shock - his plating flares, optics brightening, and he leans back to better stare up at Ironhide in surprise. “Sir?”

“He’s grateful, kid. He wants ta make sure yer alright.” Ironhide presses out with his field, soothing - and he can feel what Pivot mentioned, the frayed edges of panic that Mirage is still too worn-thin to act on. “Ye weren’ supposed ta be put inta a situation like - like th’ cell downstairs. It was an… error o’ miscommunication, let’s call it - he wants ta make sure yer okay.”

That doesn’t seem to convince Mirage at all. “Oh.” He curls in on himself a little more, and the panic tinges with earnest fright - an immediate sort of terror that Ironhide is familiar with. He rises to his pedes, nudging Mirage, gently - the noble scrambles to make room for him, to get out of the way, but Ironhide doesn’t let him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to draw him close as he settles on the berth.

“He ain’t gonna hurt you, kid. He wants ta - I dunno. Talk to ye. Ask ye a couple’a questions.” He can see the way that frightens Mirage, though, and he strokes his hand down the smaller mech’s back. “It ain’t a trap, mech. He’s not lookin’ fer an excuse ta hurt ye.” 

Mirage nods his helm, just a little. “He doesn’t need one.”

“Kid, no -” Ironhide huffs a heavy vent, letting his whole frame sag a little, and ignoring the sting in his own shoulders. “You really think ‘e’s gonna do tha’ ta you, after ‘e let ye ‘charge in ‘is own berth so ye wouldn’ hafta list’n ta yer family, tha’ first night?”

“No - that’s not what I meant -” There’s something to the way he says the words, helm shaking frantically, that makes Ironhide believe him - makes him realize that there’s some disconnect between what he’s hearing and what Mirage is trying to say. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean -”

“‘S okay, kid. Yer okay, yer not in any trouble.” He rises, Mirage cringing back as he settles on the end of the berth - and reaches out to tug the small frame towards himself, ignoring the tremble in Mirage’s shoulders. “Tell me wha’ ye meant?”

Mirage goes quiet for a klik, field rippling against Ironhide with stress. “He’s… well, he’s like Sire, isn’t he? He doesn’t need to explain himself.” He pauses again, voice even quieter. “Not to anymech.”

“Yer Sire hit ye often, kid?” It’s a story he’s heard before - seen plenty of, working among the nobility - but it makes his spark twist regardless, no matter how often he deals with it.

“Not often.” Mirage shakes his helm again. “Just - for stepping out of line, sometimes. For forgetting my place.” 

“Ne’er jus’ cause he was angry?” Ironhide presses, gently, and the fact that Mirage doesn’t reply, doesn’t meet his optics, is answer enough.

“Optimus ain’t lookin’ ta hurt ye, kid. He’s a good mech, an’ I ain’ jus’ sayin tha’ ‘cause he’s my Prime - he’s got a gentle spark ta him. Jus’ be polite, don’ try ta run ‘im round, an’ ye’ll be fine.” Ironhide lets his engine purr, soothingly, deep in his chest, and Mirage lets out a soft rumble in reply as he puts his worries into some kind of order, plating slowly smoothing flat.

“I… I’m the Sixth of my House. I don’t…” He hesitates. “I was never trained in court manners, not like my brothers - I don’t know anything about meeting with a Prime.”

“Let me tell ye a secret, then, mech?” And this _is_ overstepping - for any other mech, with any other Prime, he wouldn’t dare, but Mirage is young and afraid and he can’t stop himself. “Th’ Prime’s commoner-born - an’ even wi’ th’ reformattin’ an’ all th’ wisdom o’ th’ Primes, he didn’ get a kilo o’ courtly manners. We had ta train ‘im up quick, an’ me an’ th’ other guards still gotta keep an optic out ta make sure none’a th’ nobles try ta slip a disrespect past ‘im.”

It’s not entirely true - Optimus has come leaps and bounds since his ascension, and mastered all but the most nuanced of the ritual greetings and stylized addresses of the court - but it’s what Mirage needs to hear, looking at him with wide, relieved optics. “As long as yer givin' it yer best, he ain’ gonna call ye out fer trippin’ up, kid.” That _is_ true - especially once Ironhide warns him about Mirage’s inexperience.

“Oh.” Mirage looks less petrified, at least, though far from eager. “Will you be there?”

“Sure I will.” Ironhide gives him a fond smile. “I’ll be escortin’ ye. Ye won’ be alone.”

“Will -” Mirage falters for a moment. “I don’t know his name?”

“Legend?” Ironhide offers - it’s the only mech he can think of that Mirage might have seen enough of to ask about. “Scary mech, ‘bout halfway ‘tween ye an’ I fer height? Green?”

Mirage nods, and Ironhide pats him on the shoulder. “I dunno - I kin ask. Give me a klik.”

He waits until Mirage nods again, then comms Optimus. ::Hey, Optimus - ye got a klik?::

Optimus’ voice comes back relieved. ::Primus, yes - one moment -:: He goes silent for almost half a klik before returning to the comm. ::Sorry - one of the Senators caught up to Kup and I - he’s been trying to corner me all orn to talk about a new refinery, you provided an easy escape.::

::Hope it’s nothin’ too serious?:: Ironhide asks. ::Need me ta chase somemech ‘round fer ye a bit?::

::No,:: Optimus replies, sounding self-satisfied. ::I set Starscream on them - if they want the kind of funding they’re asking for, they can _work_ for it.::

::Good mech.:: Ironhide can’t keep down a little grin. ::I wanted ta ask - I’m lettin’ M’rage know ye wanted ta talk ta him now, an’ he was wonderin’ if ye was plannin’ ta have Legend there.::

::I had not invited him, no.:: Optimus pauses. ::I expect Ops will require an observer of some kind, but Legend is preparing to depart for Nova Cronum. I think he’s avoiding you.::

:: _Good._ Ask fer Bumblebee?:: Ironhide requests. ::At least we know he ain’t gonna be a slagger, an’ he’s a damn hard mech ta be afraid of.::

::I can do that.:: Optimus pings back acknowledgement, then pauses. ::How is he?::

::Scared,:: Ironhide answers truthfully. ::He’s - well, you can imagine. He’s not in th’ line o’ ascension fer ‘is House - he was worryin’ he was gonna upset ye, frag up some rule ‘r another an’ get beat fer it.::

::I would never -::

::I know, mech, but he don’. I told ‘im ye’d be fergivin’ ‘bout it - finally got ‘im calmed down a bit.:: Ironhide pauses. ::Should pro’lly go back ta tha’.::

::Go ahead.:: Optimus settles smoothly out of the commlink, and Ironhide returns his attention to Mirage, who is watching him uneasily.

“It ain’t gonna be Legend, kid. One’a th’ other Ops - somemech a bit nicer. An’ they ain’ gonna hurt ye, either - even if ye do frag up bad, it ain’ their place.” 

“Right,” replies Mirage. The reminder - that Ironhide is the mech who will punish him, if he _does_ somehow anger Optimus - shouldn’t be a comfort, but it’s obviously better than the alternative of a stranger hurting him.

“It’ll be a while, ‘fore Optimus is ready fer ye, mech - a couple o’ joors.” Ironhide offers. “‘S there somethin’ ye wan’ ta do, in th’ meanwhile? I haven’ got a chance ta grab any datapads, but I’m a fair hand a’ Tidek, if ye’d like ta play, or -”

Mirage hesitates, for a moment, gathering his courage. “Could I - recharge?” He manages, voice soft.

“O’ course, mech.” Ironhide shifts, a little, but goes still when Mirage’s field trembles -

“- wait -” The younger mech looks shocked at his own boldness, but Ironhide gently nudges him on with a warm, fond brush of his own field. “I mean - if you were going to be here, anyways -”

“Oh.” Ironhide settles back, giving the younger mech a fond smile. “You wan’ me ta stick around?”

Mirage doesn’t meet his optics, but nods. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition. Sir.”

“O’ course, kid. Ain’ no trouble.” He repositions them carefully, tucking Mirage against his side with the blanket wrapped more carefully around him, the pillow cushioning his frame. “I’ve got some slag I can work on - ye jus’ get some rest.” He pauses, for a moment, then asks more gently: “Ye was havin’ terrors, then?”

“I - I kept hearing them -” He cuts off and falls silent, burying his helm in the pillow, and Ironhide, respectfully, doesn’t comment when his frame shakes with a sob.

He doesn’t say anything at all as Mirage sinks into recharge against him, field slowly flattening as exhaustion takes him, and doesn’t regret the ache in his shoulders at all when the smaller mech keens, softly, in his sleep.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s halfway through analyzing an orn’s worth of House Twisted Glass’ movements in Iacon by the time Optimus pings him again. ::Ironhide?::

::What’s up, Optimus?::

::Kup and I have finished visiting Truncheon, and the other guards. Do you think Mirage is calm enough for an audience?:: 

::Give me a couple breems.:: Ironhide replies, careful not to stir and risk jostling the smaller mech awake. ::He’s rechargin’, now - havin’ a friendly field ‘round seems ta have settled ‘im, mostly. I’ll wake ‘im up slow, try an’ keep ‘im from gettin’ too stressed fer ye.::

::If you think he’d be better off resting -:: Optimus offers, but Ironhide pings back negation.

::Nah - he don’ look too bad off, an’ ‘e’ll feel better wi’ this b’hind ‘im.:: Ironhide raises a hand to brush, soothingly, down Mirage’s side, and the younger mech lets out a tired chirble of protest. ::Ha’ Bee or Kup grab ye a mat fer ‘im ta kneel on, would ye, though? He’ll ‘preciate it.::

::I could bring a chair -:: Optimus protests, and Ironhide chuckles. 

::Nah, mech. He ain’ gonna be comfertable sittin’ fer a chat - yer th’ Prime, an’ he’s scared o’ ye. Let ‘im kneel ‘till ‘e calms down - it’ll make ‘im feel like ‘e’s respectin’ ye, proper, an’ that’ll settle ‘im.:: Mirage, at the sound of his voice, stirs further, shifting in the blankets, and arching - just a little - into his touch. ::Let me go, though - ‘e’s wakin’ up.::

::I’ll see you soon, then.:: Optimus closes the channel with a final, fond ping, and Ironhide turns his attention more fully to Mirage.

“Ye wakin’ up, kid?” He keeps his voice quiet, letting his hand slide upwards to squeeze gently at the smaller mech’s shoulder. That gets him a little relieved chirp - and Mirage’s optics flicker dimly to life.

They brighten in alarm as they recognize Ironhide - but he catches Mirage as the mech tries to jolt upright, obviously not yet fully alert. “Hey, hey - it’s fine, yer safe, stay calm -”

There’s a moment where Mirage’s field roils with confusion and alarm - and then, suddenly, it draws inward, vanishing to just above his plating as he manages to get it under control. “What -” He pauses, stilling in Ironhide’s grasp for a moment. “I’m sorry -”

“‘S alright, kid. Ye didn’ do me any harm. You remember where ye are, now?” Mirage nods, helm ducking abashedly, and Ironhide chuckles. “It’s fine, kid. Didn’ mean t’ startle ye.”

“It’s - oh.” Mirage looks up, wide-opticked. “I’m - supposed to meet with the Prime?”

“Yep. Whenever yer ready - ain’ no rush ‘bout it.” 

“Now? But -” Mirage looks terrified, and Ironhide slides to his pedes. “I’m -”

“Yer gonna be fine, kid. Jus’ - here.” He offers his hand, and Mirage slips to his own pedes with just a little wince. “Better ta jus’ ‘ave thin’s over, right? Ain’ nothin’ waitin’s gonna do fer ye but let ye think.”

Mirage nods, not saying anything, and Ironhide lets his hand rest on the smaller mech’s shoulder as he guides him towards the hall.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He pings ahead as he moves through the corridors, ushering mechs out of their way as he guides Mirage to the smaller audience room that Optimus prefers for more personal audiences. If Mirage recognizes enough to realize that he isn’t being guided to a formal audience, he doesn’t show it, walking demurly, helm lowered, like a mech marching to his execution.

“It’s gonna be fine, kid,” Ironhide offers softly, as they reach the elegant doors of the chamber. “Listen - jus’ be honest wi’ him, be polite, an’ ain’ nothin bad gonna happen ta ye in there.”

“What do I -” Mirage whispers back, desperate. “What do I do?”

“Go in wi’ me - I’ll present ye, an announce yer name. It’ll be th’ Prime, an Op, an’ me, an you don’ hafta worry bout me or th’ Op ‘less we ask ye a question, ‘right? There’ll be a mat fer ye ta kneel on.” Ironhide keeps his voice low but reassuring. “An’ after tha’, it’s easy. Th’ Op’ll introduce himself, maybe, an’ Optimus’ll ask ye questions.”

“Right.” Mirage doesn’t sound like he thinks there’s anything right about the situation, but Ironhide claps him on the shoulder encouragingly anyways.

“Tha’s th’ spirit.” He steps forward, nudging Mirage along with him, and pushes the door open before Mirage can protest -

The younger mech freezes - his whole frame locking up - and almost staggers, but this isn’t Ironhide’s first time escorting a frightened young mech around the Prime. He nudges Mirage forwards again, as he announces him, and Mirage’s frame takes over on instinct at the shove.

“Lord Prime - Mirage o’ th’ House o’ Twisted Glass.” Mirage walk forwards, slowly, and kneels before Optimus, whole frame almost quaking with the obvious tension.

Optimus gives him a kind smile - one that Mirage, helm bowed, misses entirely. “Mirage.” Optimus pauses, as if not sure what to say. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Mirage manages to choke out, as Ironhide makes his way past him to settle in the chair at Optimus’ left hand. Bumblebee gives him a faint grin from the Prime’s other side - and pings him, adding him to the two-way channel already open between himself and Prime.

::Hey, ‘Hide. Any trouble on the way up?::

::Nothin’, little mech. Kid’s a charmer - don’ mean any harm, ‘e’s just scared stiff o’ us.:: 

Bumblebee lets out a mild hum at that, and Optimus glances over. “Oh - this is Bumblebee - one of my agents. He had a few questions for you, once we’ve spoken.”

“It’s -” Mirage hesitates, for a moment, seemingly lost for words, before settling on “- an honor to meet you, sir.”

“And a pleasure to meet you, Mirage.” Bumblebee pauses, but his voice is warm. “You can relax - you aren’t in any trouble.”

“Yes, sir.” Mirage doesn’t relax at all.

“How have you been?” Optimus starts off carefully, an easy, open question. “Your side hasn’t been bothering you, has it?”

“No, my Lord Prime. Your welds were very good. Thank you.”

Optimus makes a soft sound that Ironhide recognizes from long experience as carefully-concealed discontent, but nods, approvingly, regardless. “You’ve had some energon? And a chance to recharge?”

“Yes, my Lord Prime. Ironhide was very kind.”

::Primus.:: Bumblebee pings. ::It’s like prying answers out of a shipping crate.::

Ironhide shoots him a disapproving glance. ::Kid’s scared, Bee. Ain’ like he’s tryin’ ta hide nothin’ - would ye be mouthy in front of a Prime?::

::All the time,:: Bumblebee shoots back, teasingly. ::But… yeah. Let me ask him something more direct, Optimus? Trying to get personal is going to freak him out a lot more than a straightforward question.::

::Go ahead, Bee.:: It’s telling that there’s no note of warning behind the words, and Bumblebee gives a small smile as he nods.

“Mirage.” The noble’s gaze shoots to him as he speaks, then away, as if Mirage isn’t sure where to look, but Bumblebee doesn’t react one way or another. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your family.”

“Of course, sir.” Mirage trips over the address a little - obviously inexperience, and not disrespect, and Bumblebee smiles at him. “Whatever you wish to know.”

“Shroud and his mechs had weapons that shouldn’t have been permitted within the palace grounds. Do you know how they smuggled them in?”

The question seems to surprise Mirage, who shakes his helm entirely earnestly. “No, sir.” He hesitates, though, and Bumblebee gestures encouragingly. “My sire has a hunting armory, at the estate - that’s the only place I know he stores weapons.”

Bumblebee gives that a considering look. “Could you identify weapons from that armory, if I showed them to you?”

“Individual pieces, maybe - I don’t know every weapon. Sir.” 

::Useful - I’ll want him for that, eventually. We’ve been trying to source the weapons - if he can identify which belonged to the estate beforehand, it’ll be easier to source buyers on the rest.:: Bumblebee smiles at Mirage. “That would be useful - would you be willing to assist me with that, later this orn?”

“Yes, sir.”

::And helpful.:: Bumblebee’s tone is approving.

::He’s a good kid. ‘S why I ain’ keen to let Legend slag ‘im.:: Ironhide sends back.

Optimus gives a faint hum of agreement. ::He seems entirely in earnest…::

Bumblebee nods, just faintly, before asking another question. “Did any of the servants know what was going on? What your sire was planning?” 

“No!” That gets a spike of fear that all three of them can feel against their fields. “I mean - sir, please, none of the lay-servants knew, I swear it -”

“But the lord’s-servant’s did?”

Mirage seems to shrink at the question, staring up at Bumblebee. “My sire’s butler - Rampart. He knew, for certain. And the bursar must have known.” He goes quiet for a moment. “I told - I told -”

“Mirage.” Optimus’ voice is low and gentle, and Mirage stares up at him, terrified. “It’s alright. I have no intention of pursuing Hound for whatever you told him in confidence.”

Mirage seems frozen for a moment - then his whole frame seems to slump. “Thank you - thank you, my Lord Prime.”

“How long did _you_ know what your sire was planning, Mirage?” The gentle, probing question from Bumblebee makes the noble flinch again.

“Orns, sir. Almost… almost a vorn.” His voice is fragile, and Ironhide can’t hold back a soft hiss - it’s long, far longer than he expected. “I was - I’m sorry, Lord Prime. I was… I was afraid.”

“Of him?” Optimus guesses, and Ironhide can feel the way his field darkens when MIrage nods. “Why? You had to have known that if you came forwards, you would be protected -”

Ironhide lays a hand on his shoulder - a gentle, unobtrusive measure, one that Mirage, head bowed, doesn’t see. When Optimus glances at him, he gives a small shake of his helm.

::Why not?:: Optimus’ voice, over the comm, is frustrated. ::If he warned us -::

::You might’a rewarded him, Optimus. Th’ rest o’ his family…” Ironhide trails off suggestively. ::Well, those tha’ didn’ get caught up in one’a Legend’s purges? An’ I’ll be honest - plenty o’ th’ other Primes weren’ too hot ta show gratitude t’ th’ kin o’ traitors.::

::Oh.:: Optimus’ tone softens.

“My Lord Prime…” Mirage’s voice, when he speaks again, is quiet. “I’m sorry - I didn’t think -” His fans have ticked up, noticeably, a noticable whir in the silence of the chamber. “I didn’t think he was going to - going to _act_ -”

“You thought you had time.” Mirage nods, helplessly.

“I should have - I’m _sorry -_ ” 

“It’s alright, Mirage.” Optimus gives them both a warning glance before he continues. “It’s a hard thing, to go against your kin. I’m glad you found the courage to do so on my behalf.”

The young lord is quiet, for a moment, at that. “Thank you, my Lord Prime.”

“Give me a klik, to speak to Ironhide and Bumblebee?”

“Whatever you wish, my Lord Prime.” Mirage’s voice is soft.

::He’s loyal.:: Bumblebee speaks first. ::He’s loyal, and he’s scared, and the only time he hesitated was when he thought something he said was going to get his friend killed. He’s just a kid, and Legend’s going to be slagged with me for saying it, but…:: He shrugs, just a little. ::I’m fine recommending that you spare him. Legend’s a hard-aft about stuff like this - don’t let him push you around.::

It’s a relief to hear Bumblebee say it, and Ironhide nods. ::I - I might be too close, ta be honest. Seein’ th’ kid tha’ upset - an’ you know how I feel bout Leg. But… yeah. He don’ seem like ‘e’s gonna turn on ye.::

::You could always have him swear to you - he’d probably do it, if you asked, and you’d be able to put a hand on his shoulder if you ever needed to -:: Bumblebee looks surprised when Optimus - and Ironhide - give him blank looks. ::Take him into a vassalage? I mean, I know the lords hate it, but if his whole family is going to be executed - it would protect him, and you’d be able to keep an optic on his estates - slag, it’s going to be decavorns before he’s ready to manage them alone, anyways -::

Ironhide is still in the dark, but Optimus, historian that he is, looks enlightened. ::That’s - that’s very clever. And then -:: He trails off, attention turning back to Mirage, and he offers the younger mech his hand. Mirage looks at it, bewildered, and flinches back, but Optimus gives him a kind smile. “Come here, Mirage?”

“Yes, my Lord Prime.”

Mirage shuffles forward, uncertainty plain, but Optimus just lets a hand rest on his shoulder. He waits until the smaller mech looks up, confused, to speak.

“I… your family’s lives… I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that can be done for them, not with how wide-spread their support for Shroud’s conspiracy was. But you…” He presses fondness into his field, and Mirage stares up at him with wide, confused optics. “You don’t deserve to suffer for his mistakes, Mirage. You have a loyal spark.”

Mirage bows his helm at that, and there’s a faint tremble in his shoulders as he speaks. “Thank you for saying so, my Lord Prime.”

“I need mechs with sparks like yours. If I asked it of you - would you be willing to live, and serve me?”

Mirage goes entirely still. “My Lord?” His voice is bewildered - his whole field sparks with it.

“I don’t want to see the House of Twisted Glass end like this - don’t want to see you killed for your loyalty to me, Mirage. If you were to become my vassal - with the rest of your family gone, you would be the Lord of Twisted Glass.” Optimus speaks softly, carefully, so that Mirage can follow along.

“And I would serve you?” Mirage asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

“You would have my protection,” Optimus corrects him. “My agents would… conceal your sire’s treason, and teach you - everything you need to run a House. And then, in time, you would support me among the Lords - your House has influence that would be of great use to me.”

“I - _yes_ , my Lord Prime.” Mirage looks up, and his optics are shining bright. “ _Anything_ , to be of service -”

“It’s not the kind of thing that can be done today,” Bumblebee interjects, as much to Optimus as for Mirage. “You can’t swear the oaths until your family has been… dealt with. But I can begin making arrangements -”

“Please,” Optimus nods. “And Ironhide - if you could have a set of rooms arranged in the eastern wing?” 

“I’ll take care o’ it.” He gives Mirage - who looks only a _fraction_ less afraid, and no less stressed than before, a glance. “Are we dismissed, Prime?”

“Of course.” Optimus gives a regal nod, and pats Mirage’s shoulder one last time as he rises to his pedes. “Thank you, Mirage. We’ll speak again, I’m sure.”

He brushes out of the room towards his own quarters, Bumblebee on his heels, and Ironhide waits until they’re both gone before trying to catch Mirage’s attention again. As soon as the door clicks shut, though, he drops down off the chair, settling beside the blue mech to clap a hand to his shoulder.

“See? It weren’ so bad, mech. Ye did fine.” Mirage looks up at him, optics wide and bright, and there’s a moment where his field warps -

\- and the young noble half-launches himself at Ironhide, distraught, shoulders shuddering with sobs as his optics blur with tears.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ironhide doesn’t bother trying to calm the younger mech down - he scoops him into his lap and lets him vent, ignoring the way Mirage’s uncontrolled field buffets at his own. The soothing words he offers go entirely unheeded, but that’s not unexpected - Mirage is far from the first young mech he’s had to comfort out of a panic after meeting their Prime, and here, in the safety and privacy of the chambers, he can let the mech vent his distress. Even so, it’s most of a joor before Mirage’s field begins to stabilize, his sobs turning into the choked gasps that mean that he’s cried himself out. 

“Tha’ better, kid?” He asks when Mirage finally begins to quiet.

“I’m _sorry -_ ” There’s something desperate in the way he says it, though, and Ironhide pushes reassurance into his field.

“Ain’ nothin’ ta be sorry about. You did well, kid - really well. I’m proud o’ ye.”

“I -” But Mirage trembles a little, and doesn’t say anything, and Ironhide gives a soothing rumble of his engines.

“Ye didn’ lie, or try an’ hide nothin’, an’ ye didn’t break down in front o’ th’ Prime - tha’s better than mechs twice yer age can say, kid.” That seems to reassure him a bit, and Ironhide shifts. “I got a proper room set up fer ye, too - an’ a proper berth, an’ all. Ye think yer ready ta go see it?”

Mirage nods, wordlessly, and Ironhide guides him to his pedes.

They walk close together as they head towards the East Wing - the private suites reserved for personal guests of the Prime’s. It’s mostly unoccupied - Shockwave has one room set aside for his use, and there are a handful of rooms reserved for Megatron’s _amica_ , but beyond that, there haven’t been many opportunities to fill it. The room Ironhide’s had set aside for Mirage is a smaller one, easily monitored - and Mirage’s upset has given his guards more than enough time to slip in a handful of discrete cameras.

Once they’re inside, he guides Mirage over to a couch, and settles him on it.

“Right. So - this’ll be your room while yer stayin a’ th’ palace, ‘right?” Mirage glances around in surprise.

“It’s… lovely?”

“It’s supposed ta be,” he nods. “Listen, ye - well, ye ain’ a prisoner, ‘xactly, but ye ain’ a free mech, neither, alrigh’? Yer welcome ta do as ye please in here - but ye ain’ gonna be ‘llowed ta go callin’ mechs up, or ta wander as ye like, fer - I dunno. At least a bit - I ‘spect Bee’ll be by ta tell ye, when he’s done wi’ Prime. Ye understand?”

Mirage nods obediently. “Yes, sir.”

“If ye need anythin’ - I’m gonna have one a’ my mechs guardin' ye. They’ll be just out th’ door - ye can let ‘em know, an’ they’ll help, or tell me an’ I’ll help.” He gestures to the wall. “There’s a dispenser over there, an’ a berth an’ racks, an’ I’ll do my best ta have anymech comin’ by warn ahead a bit so ye can get yer helm on -”

There’s a banging at the door, and Mirage jumps in alarm.

“Instead o’ gettin’ surprised.” Ironhide finishes, with a vent. “Wait here, kid - I dunno who…” He tromps over to the door, and pulls it wide - “Who th’ -”

It’s all he manages to get out before a short red frame, field crackling with static, shoves under his arm.

“You!” Red Alert thrusts an arm out, finger pointed, accusingly, at Mirage. “You’re Mirage, aren’t you!”

Mirage’s vocalizer resets with a crackle and a pop. “Yes?” he manages to choke out, plating flaring in alarm.

“Tell me how you snuck into the Prime’s rooms or so help me, I’ll - I’ll -” Red Alert cuts off, whole frame quivering, and his optics are incandescent with what Ironhide recognizes as a deep and surging terror. He steps forwards, wraps a hand around Red Alert’s shoulder, tugging him back from an equally-frightened Mirage -

“He ain’t gonna do slag ta ye, mech.” He lifts Red Alert off his pedes, and it’s a testament to how long they’ve known each other that Red Alert doesn’t struggle against him, lets himself be completely encompassed by Ironhide’s field. “Primus, Red, how long since ye’ve slept? An’ where’s ‘Ferno?”

“Around.” It’s an evasive answer - always concerning, from Red Alert. “Put me down! I need to know -”

“Hey - hey. Red. It’s fine.” He manages to carry Red Alert over to the couch. “I’ll ask ‘im, alright? Jus’ - there ain’ no reason fer bargin' in an’ threatenin’ mechs. ‘Raj here’s th’ helpful sort, okay?”

“Fine.” Red sits where Ironhide puts him, whole frame stiff with frustration.

::Ferno, you around? Red just charged in on me, an he ain’ lookin too hot.:: That gets a relieved ping of acknowledgement, but no further response, and Ironhide settles back into his own seat with a vent. “Hey, ‘Raj - this is Red. He’s in charge o’ monitorin’ thin’s, round here. He ain’ gonna hurt ye, or anythin’, if ye tell us or no - but I’d be interested ta know, too.”

“I -” Mirage hesitates, optics locked on Red Alert. “It’s my Alpha - I’ve always been able to go unnoticed.”

“Your Alpha - a spark ability?” Red Alert’s optics narrow. “Show me!”

Mirage flinches back - and disappears.

“Slag an’ Pit!” Ironhide can’t quite hold back the curse in his surprise, and Red makes an alarmed squeak besides him as Mirage fades back into view. “How th’ frag does tha’ work?”

“I… it’s something to do with sensors - how they perceive me.” Mirage shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know how it works. Even if you put a tracker on me, my alpha will interfere. My sire searched… extensively… for some way to locate me while my alpha is active. He never found anything.” 

“That’s -” Red Alert pauses when there’s another knock at the door, and Mirage’s optics shoot up. “ _That’s_ Inferno - don’t worry about him - tell me -”

“Come in,” Ironhide calls, relieved, over whatever he’s trying to say.

Inferno gives him a chagrined look as he steps into the room. “Hey, Red.” 

His look of chagrin is _nothing_ compared to the one that Red gives - the look of a caught mech. “Oh - Inferno. Mirage was just telling me about - about his Alpha ability. Yes.”

“Sure.” Inferno walks over to the couch. “So -” He pauses, voice going silent as the pair converse over their bond. Finally, Red ducks his helm.

“Alright.” He turns to Mirage, asks something, as Inferno pings Ironhide over comms.

::Thanks, ‘hide - he’s been fixating on this ever since the attack.:: Now that he’s not focusing on Red Alert, Ironhide gets a better look at Inferno - who looks _exhausted_.

::He ‘charged at all?:: he asks, sympathetic.

::Nothing.:: It’s bad news - but it explains the erratic fizz to the hacker’s field, and the jerky way his frame is moving. ::And he had already been up for the better part of two cycles beforehand. But he’s going to work himself to glitching over this if he doesn’t get answers - it’s the only reason I’m not already hauling him off to medical.::

::Fair enough.:: Ironhide nods. ::He startled th’ slag outta th’ kid, but I don’ think -::

He’s startled out of his conversation when Red Alert leaps to his pedes - and Inferno has to jump to steady him, as he staggers. “No, no, you see - I don’t care where you _go -_ I care where you _can’t_.” Red Alert gestures broadly. “Your talent makes you imperceptible to sensors - but you are, as a fact, _present_ , correct?”

“I - I don’t vanish, or anything, no.” It’s obvious that Mirage has no idea where Red Alert is taking this - and Ironhide will admit readily enough that he’s also intrigued. 

“Hmph. Pressure pads beneath the floorboards, then. Even a standard point-recieve laser matrix - easy enough to rig up, and set up a camera to monitor for interruptions with no observable cause -”

“Is tha’ gonna work?” Ironhide can’t resist asking.

“Yes, oh yes, it should - observe his effects, not him himself, he won’t be able to hide that -” Red Alert gives an eager smirk. “You - how long will you be here?”

“Be - what?”

“Here!” Red Alert replies, gesturing at the walls. “At the palace!”

“He’s here a’ th’ Prime’s pleasure, Red.” Ironhide steps in gently. “At least an orn - maybe two. Ye’ll have plenty o’ time ta bother ‘im, I promise.”

“Good. I’ll need some time - I’ll have to talk to the Constructicons - but you!” He whirls, jabbing a finger at Mirage, who lets out a frightened chirp. “You - I’ll need you to assist me, once I’ve got everything together - there won’t be a _hall_ in the _palace_ you can sneak through, once I’m done with you -”

“Red.” It’s Inferno who reaches out to pull Red Alert back, this time. “Stop that - you’re frightening him.”

“Frightening who - oh.” Red Alert’s optics widen a little as he looks up at Mirage, who has gone stone-still. “Ah -” He lets his hand drop to his side. “My apologies, Mirage. I didn’t mean to alarm you…”

Inferno gives him an approving nudge, and he ventures onward. “And… I would be grateful for your assistance in designing suitable countermeasures against your own and similar alpha abilities. Because you probably aren’t trying to assassinate the Prime.”

“There we go.” Ironhide grins at him, and Red Alert flushes a little. “But tha’s a job fer next cycle. Why don’ ye go get some ‘charge, an’ I’ll have an extra couple’a guards on Prime t’night ta keep an optic out. An’ a sealed door ‘tween ‘im an’ th’ rest o’ th’ palace.”

“I -” Red deflates a little more. “Yes, that would be -” He glances up at Inferno, who says something over the bond, and nods his agreement. “I’ll - I’ll see you next cycle, Ironhide.”

“Get some sleep, mech. Both’ a ye.” 

Mirage gives him a wide-opticked stare once they’re both gone, and Ironhide grins. “Bit of a spitfire, Red. Needs ‘is ‘charge.”

“He…” Mirage pauses. “I’d be happy to assist him, but -”

“He’s a good mech. Really.” Ironhide edges around the table to sit next to Mirage, tucking an arm over his shoulder. “He gets stressed, an’ it makes him - well, like tha’ - bu’ once ‘e’s got some ‘charge ‘e’ll be right as rain. He wouldn’a hurt ye.”

“Oh.” Mirage curls into his side, contemplating that. 

“Ye don’ hafta worry ‘bout it, kid. He ain’ gonna come bargin' in again - ‘Ferno’ll make sure o’ it.” Ironhide eyes him. “Why don’ ye go get some rest? Ye’ve had a long couple’a cycles, an’ yer still healin’.”

“I - I should, probably.” But Mirage doesn’t move, and Ironhide can feel the hesitation in his field. “Would -”

He falls silent, and Ironhide gives a soft hum. “Would I - oh. Ye want me ta stay?”

Mirage glances away. “You - I’m sorry, I know you’ve probably got more important things to do -”

“Nah. Nothin’ that can’t be done on a ‘pad, a’ least.” That’s not true - there’s a whole list of things he needs done, but he pulls up a list of his ‘guards and begins delegating ruthlessly. “Got a lotta files ta look over. Might as well do ‘em here.”

“Really?” Mirage’s tone is surprised - but the look in his optics is deep, deep relief. “Thank you -”

“Ain’ a problem, kid.” He gives the younger mech a fond smile, and helps him to his pedes. “Let’s get ye ta berth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's a chapter! Got some rough edges to fiddle with, but hopefully you'll enjoy!
> 
> Poor, poor Mirage. This is all very stressful for him :(... He just wants to be useful to his Prime (preferably in a capacity that ends up with him alive, now that that's been presented as an option.) He's nowhere near our Ops commander Mirage yet, but hopefully you can see at least some of the spine and determination beneath the scared kid who just got his whole family signed up for execution... 
> 
> And Ironhide has, obviously, taken the exact opposite approach to Ratchet when it comes to dealing with Drift's death - rather than wait a millennia to even _think_ about getting close to someone new, watch out, mechs, 'cause this bitch adopting _everybody._ Or, well, Mirage, apparently. And, give him a bit, Hot Rod.
> 
> Meanwhile, poor Red Alert hasn't slept in four days, and he is _so focused_ on this whole Mirage thing. He's for sure not one of those people who deals with things well on no sleep - and, tragically, any attempt to drag him off to bed without letting him figure out the answer to his current fixation risks... well, him beginning to spin off paranoid theories about why you're trying to stop him. By the time of the main plot, he's calmed down a lot, and this is much better from the barely-functional state he was in when Ratchet and the gang first started working with him - but he's still much more erratic at this point, not least because he's not got the iron grip on the Primal Palace that he's managed by the time of the main plot. By then he's shot or exploded or had Ops shoot or explode everymech that he thinks is reasonably likely to attack Optimus, he's bugged every inch of everything, and he, personally, is physically secure, so he's much more chill about things. I kind of debated leaving this in though, b/c IDK if it feels completely in line with what he's like elsewhere, so let me know if you have strong thoughts one way or another!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Also, if you're interested, I did a sort of one-shot thing based on last chapter called The Lash. It's in the story collection, and it's basically the Tru Facs about why whipping isn't a common punishment by the time The Hitman rolls around.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is five shorter stories in rough chronology about Mirage's time in the palace - they don't link up. Long line seperates, short line indicates a scene shift.

::Commander Ironhide, sir?::

::Yeah, Flashpoint?:: Ironhide sets his cube down on the table, gesturing to Optimus for a moment. The young ‘guard’s tone doesn’t have any urgency to it, but there’s a sort of nervous hesitance that has Ironhide almost as on edge - it’s never a sign that bodes well. ::What’s up?::

::Ah - well, you know I’m guarding Lord Mirage today, right?::

::Yeah?:: He pauses uneasily. ::He causin' a problem, or…?::

Flashpoint hesitates. ::Well, I don’t know if it’s a problem, sir.:: There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then: ::It’s Red Alert.::

That… Ironhide relaxes - if it involves Red Alert, it’s almost certainly a problem, but not a serious one. ::What’s he up to, kid?::

::Well - I don’t know.:: There’s a note of frustration to Flashpoint’s voice. ::He and Inferno came by earlier this cycle to talk to Mirage, and since they’ve got permission, I confirmed that he was willing to see them and allowed them access. But… that was almost ten joors ago, and they haven’t come out.::

::Have ye knocked?::

::Yes, sir! Red Alert hacked into my comms channel and informed me that they were busy and not to be disturbed.:: Ironhide can’t help a chuckle at that.

::Right - but ye don’ hear, say, M’rage screamin’ from inside th’ room?::

::No, sir. As I said, Inferno is there, too.:: There’s a flicker of amusement in the younger guard’s tone at that. ::I just know that, ah, were it me -::

::Ye’d rather nah spend ten joors locked in a small ‘partment wi’ Red.:: Ironhide shoots Optimus a grin, holding up a finger. ::Yeah, I see yer poin’. Standby, an’ I’ll be ‘round in a bit ta see if I can drag Red off o’ him.::

::Thank you, sir. Standing by.::

Ironhide laughs and drains his cube as the comm channel closes. “Ye gonna be alright here fer haf’ a joor if I gotta leave ye, Optimus? Red’s cornered ‘raj, an’ it sounds like they could use a checkin’ in on.”

“Primus! Go - go.” Optimus chuckles. “I’ll be fine.”

\---

He doesn’t rush over to Mirage’s rooms. Ten joors or no, Mirage is _safe_ with Red Alert - there’s no point in rushing and attracting attention to himself. Still, Flashpoint looks relieved when he arrives. 

“They still in there?” He gestures at the door, and the younger guard nods. “Great. Shouldn’ be long - just gonna check in wi’ them.”

He taps on the door, and there’s a moment of silence before Red Alert wedges it open. “Hello, Ironhide.”

“Hey, Red. Can I come in?” 

“One klik.” Red Alert ducks back behind the door. “Mirage, is it alright if Ironhide comes in?”

“Of course.” Red Alert tugs the door open, and Ironhide steps inside. 

“Hey kid - hey, ‘Ferno. How’s it goin’?”

“Well.” Mirage is the first to reply, offering a pleasant smile over the pile of devices stacked on the living room table. “Can I get you a cube, sir?”

He waves the offer away. “Nah - I’m fine, was havin’ a cube just a breem ago. Jus’ thought I’d swing by, see wha’ th’ three o’ ye were workin’ on - ye’ve been in here fer quite a while.”

“We’ve been _experimenting._ ” Red Alert gives him a fiercely pleased look.

“Oh.” Ironhide glances at Mirage - who is bright-opticked and alert, but, admittedly, doesn’t look particularly unhappy about having his afternoon shanghai’d by Red. “An’ - ye mechs figure anythin’ out?”

“All _sorts_ of thing!” Red Alert brandishes his datapad like a weapon. “For example - oh, go on, Mirage, show him -”

Mirage obligingly blinks out of existence, and Red Alert gestures. “See? Wait, you’ll need to activate your geiger counter. My apologies, Ironhide, I forget you don’t keep yours on -”

Ironhide activates his radiation sensors, and pauses. “I’m gettin’ background, Red - nothin’ t’ note. What’m I lookin’ fer?”

“Anything! Or - well, you can come back, Mirage -” Mirage reappears, and immediately, Ironhide’s sensors jump - not dangerously, but a noticeable spike. “ _That._ ”

“Huh. How’d ye -” Mirage dangles a small canister from his fingers before offering it to Red, who scoops it into a lead-lined canister. “Oh. So yer alpha prevents thing’s yer carryin’ from gettin’ sensed, too?”

“Apparently.” Mirage nods. “We’ve been trying different things all afternoon, to see what the limits are.”

“And they’re _extensive._ ” Red Alert wiggles a little. “Powerful olifactants and volatiles detect once they’ve offgassed far enough away from his frame, and there’s a slight registerable thermal variance if he’s carrying something with a high enough temperature…”

“As far as we can tell, if I’m holding it, it’s hidden.” Mirage nods. “We’re still not entirely sure how things work though - lasers seem to go right through me, and I know I don’t cast a shadow, but…”

He gives a helpless shrugs, and Red Alert pats his knee sympathetically. “At least we know you still depress pressure plates. If you didn’t - I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t be able to tell what the _Pit_ was going on…”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Yer gonna like Shockwave, I think,” Ironhide assures Mirage. “He’s a good mech.”

“I - he’s a Senator, isn’t he?” Mirage asks, quietly. “One of the Prime’s favorites.”

“Yeah. War hero, an’ all. Bit of an odd mech, sometimes, I’ll warn ye.” Ironhide pauses, considering how to explain. “Ye know he got captured by th’ Quints, right? An’ they mutilated ‘im?”

It’s common knowledge, and Mirage nods. “They took his helm, didn’t they? And - and replaced his arms with guns?”

“Well, one o’ them,” Ironhide nods. “They did - some other slag, too, ta him. He don’ do emotions, much, anymore - kind o’ a taciturn mech. Nice enough, though - jus’... don’ be surprised if ‘e steps on ‘is glossa, an’ don’ be ‘fraid ta tell ‘im if ye don’ want ta talk ‘bout slag, or if ye need ‘im ta explain somethin’. He ain’ gonna be offended - but I can’t promise ‘e’ll figure it out on ‘is own, either.”

“He’s - going to be teaching me, I thought?”

“Well, yeah -” and he can’t quite keep the note of apology out of his voice, there - “But… Well, he’s a bit tactless. Don’ connect well wi’ other mechs, these days. It’s an injury - ain’ anythin’ he means by it, an’ it ain’ like he don’ know it happened, jus’... ain’ th’ sorta thin’ that can be wired ‘round.”

“Oh.” Mirage looks taken off guard, but nods anyways. “I’m sure it will be fine…”

“So am I, kid. Ain’t a mech who knows c’n manage an estate better, or is more loyal t’ the Prime.” _That_ , he’s surprised to see, has the exact effect that he’s hoped for - Mirage relaxes, just slightly, into the couch.

He jumps, just a little, when there’s a brisk knock at the door - but settles when Aileron opens it, giving a polite bow. “Senator Shockwave is here, sir. Shall I send him in?”

“Oh - ah, yes, please.” Mirage straightens a little on the couch as the door brushes wide, letting a massive violet frame fill the doorway.

“Hey, ‘wave.” Ironhide gives the tall purple mech a grin as he steps inside. Shockwave’s gaze remains impassive, but he bows his helm in greeting regardless.

“Ironhide. It’s good to see you.” There’s a roteness to the words that is nothing like the Shockwave Ironhide once knew - but nothing about Shockwave is like the mech he once knew, and Ironhide waves him inside with a fond brush of his field that he knows the other mech can no longer feel.

“This’d be M’rage, then. Yer new student - he an’ I was jus’ havin’ a bit of a chat while we waited. Can I grab ye a cube while ye get acquainted?”

“I have already fueled for the cycle, Ironhide. Thank you for offering.” Shockwave steps over to the couch that Ironhide had previously claimed, settling into it - and Ironhide settles beside Mirage, a comforting hand on his shoulder, since there’s no way that he and Shockwave are going to fit on the same couch.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Senator. Thank you for agreeing to teach me.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, as well. You have my condolences, Mirage. I’m sorry that your family are traitors.” Mirage flinches, and Shockwave pauses, turning to Ironhide with a curious tilt of his helm. Ironhide can’t quite keep the pinched expression off of his face, but he gives the other mech a thumbs up.

“‘S good, ‘wave. Yer knockin’ it outta th’ park.” That gets a helpless, choked laugh from Mirage, which gets its own moment of careful regard from Shockwave.

“Ah… my apologies?” He tries, a curious note to his voice. “I didn’t mean to offend…”

“No - no, it’s fine, Senator, I’m sorry -” Mirage gives Ironhide a wide-opticked look. “I just wasn’t expecting - I wasn’t expecting you to know…”

“Don’t worry. Bumblebee has already informed me that their status is to be kept secret - I assure you, no one will learn of it from me.” Shockwave pauses. “We do not have to speak of it further, if it will upset you. Ironhide advised me that you might not want to discuss it.”

“I would - yes. I would rather not…” Mirage gives another helpless little laugh. “Thank you, Senator.”

“It is no trouble.” Shockwave pauses. “Have you had any experience with the day-to-day running of House Twisted Glass?”

“Ah -” Mirage takes a moment to reply, taken off-guard by the characteristic sweep of Shockwave’s conversations. “No, Senator. I had little involvement - I was sixth of my House. My sire did not expect me to inherit.”

“Hm. Optimus has asked me to perform on your behalf an audit of your House’s holdings - we shall start there, perhaps. But - tell me, what did you study? Your files say that you’ve completed your second-form education -”

“An’ this is where I head out, mechs.” Ironhide rises to his pedes, giving them both a fond grin. “Comm if ye need anythin’. Try ta keep it under ten joor, ‘wave”

Mirage gives a soft chuckle at that, but Shockwave just cycles his optic in confusion. “I have a meeting in three joor that I cannot excuse myself from, Ironhide.”

“Don’ worry about it, mech. Inside joke.” He shoots one last grin at Mirage, who doesn’t look nearly as on edge as he begins explaining his secondary studies, and departs.

::Headin’ up ta ye, Optimus. Shockwave’s doin’ - well, ‘bout as well as ye might hope.::

That gets an intrigued ping from Optimus. ::Oh?::

::Hadn’ seen th’ kid fer more than a klik ‘fore ‘e had ‘is pede in ‘is mouth, but - well, kid took it fine, an’ it ain’ like ‘wave’s gonna be embarrassed ‘bout it. He was drillin’ th’ kid ‘bout his education when I left.::

::Ha!:: Optimus’ laugh is tinged with fondness. ::That sounds like him.::

::He was talkin’ bout audits, too. I’d feel bad fer leavin’ th’ kid wi’ him if I didn’ know he’d come out th’ other side able ta run a House.” Ironhide grins teasingly, even though Optimus can’t see it. ::After all, if he could teach ye ta be Prime -::

::He can teach anymech anything,:: Optimus agrees with another laugh.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I just… I could always take him up on it, next time he’s on Cybertron.” Optimus vents, heavily, and raises his hands helplessly before himself. “I know I shouldn’t, but…”

“Ye can’t have th’ Lord Protector burn down all yer problems, mech. Or th’ Primal Palace.” Ironhide says it with a grin, though. “Temptin’ as it may be. Ye’d jus’ be relocated ta th’ Crystal Hall while we patched thin’s up ‘round here, an’ then yer no better off ‘cept yer in a much less com’fertable set o’ ‘partments on ‘ccount o’ I don’ think th’ Hall’s been refurbished since th’ Age o’ Steel.”

“We could have pleasure cruises.” Optimus’ voice is decisive. “We could have pleasure cruises, and get all the Lords onto boats, and then - this is the clever part, Ironhide - we _sink the boats._ They can _walk_ out of the Rust Sea.”

“Alright, it’s unchar’table, but yer sellin’ me on this - keep goin’.”

“Starscream’s always going on about the oil baths - I could see if he’d be willing to trade. Move the Seat of Primal Authority to Vos, and he can be the Winglord of Iacon for a bit.”

Ironhide snorts. “An’ shove th’ Lords outta windows when they frag ye off?”

“No, _better._ ” Optimus’ lip curls in a vicious grin. “We don’t tell them. By the time we’re ready to swap back, I’m sure Starscream will have thinned the herd -”

He looks more than ready to go on, but Ironhide holds up a hand in warning as one of the guards pings him. ::Sorry, Prime - somemech is wanderin’ ‘bout.::

::Of course.:: Entertaining as their discussion is, it’s nothing they can allow to be overheard, and Optimus falls silent. ::Who is it?::

Ironhide pings query to the guard, who responds a moment later. ::Oh - it’s th’ kid. An’ Bee - looks like th’ little guy decided ta drag ‘im outta ‘is rooms.::

::Good - I’ve been worried that he would feel trapped in there.:: Optimus gives an approving flush of his field. ::Shall we go say hello?::

::Might a’ well.:: Ironhide agrees, pinging Bumblebee. ::Bee knows we’re comin’ - we can happen ‘cross them over by th’ tourmaline cascades, if ye’d like.::

::That works for me.:: Optimus agrees, turning to stride in that direction. 

The gardens are - not messy, but less polished than usually, small piles of trimmings scattered on the ground as the gardeners prune back areas damaged by the storm seasons. The crystal growths themselves, however, are no less beautiful - elegant facets shimmering where the acid has scoured them clean.

They take their time meandering over to the other pair. Ironhide pings Bumblebee again, just as they round the corner, and the minibot looks up with a friendly smile. “Oh! Ironhide, Prime - how are you doing?”

Mirage glances up when he hears his companion’s words - from where he’s kneeling, examining a growth of delicate pink crystals grafted onto a low-slung quartz outcropping. His whole plating flattens in alarm at the sight of Optimus - it’s only when Bumblebee reaches down, offering him a hand up, that he rises. “My Lord Prime - Ironhide -”

He hesitates, optics flicking from one of them to the other, before dropping his gaze to his pedes. “Good cycle.”

“Good cycle, Bumblebee, Mirage.” Optimus returns with a bow of his helm. 

“Enjoyin’ th’ crystals?” Ironhide asks, sidling forwards to glance down at the one Mirage had been considering. He gets a nod of the helm in return.

“Ah - yes, sir. Bumblebee invited me to come and look at them with him - Tachyon said that it would be alright?” There’s a spark of unease in Mirage’s voice, though, and Ironhide hastens to wave it off.

“‘Course. Bee’s more than able ta keep an optic on ye.” Mirage looks relieved, at that, and Bumblebee smiles. 

“Were the two of you heading anywhere in particular?” Optimus asks, and it’s impossible to miss the way Mirage tenses at being questioned.

“We were -” Mirage hesitates. “Going to find one of the groundskeepers, to… to ask if it would be alright for me to take a few cuttings, when I return to Tower Twisted Glass, my Lord Prime.”

“For your friend?” Optimus asks, smiling gently.

“Ah - yes, my Lord Prime.” Mirage glances away, abashed. “He… he enjoys the long-framed forms, and you have some beautiful cultivars that I’ve never seen before.”

“It’s good of you to think of him.” Optimus bends down, scooping up a handful of the trimmings and letting them sift through his fingers until he can set aside a few of the larger, better-formed ones, the smaller shards sparkling as they scatter across the path. He offers the suitable ones to Mirage with a fond look. “These are swept up and sent to the temples - for inlays, I believe. You’re welcome to take whatever you’d like of the trimmings - and if you’d like a cutting of one of the wild-grown varietals, one of the gardeners can retrieve one for you, or have it sent to your House when the time for trimming comes.”

Mirage’s fingers tremble as they accept the cuttings, though he doesn’t drop any, cradling them carefully. He steps back with a bow as soon as they’re in hand, tugging a mesh from his subspace to wrap them in. “Thank you, my Lord Prime. You’re very kind.”

“The gardeners do beautiful work - I’ve always considered it a shame how few mechs get to see it.” Optimus smiles again. “Have a good cycle, both of you.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

::I’m kinda surprised Leg’s lettin’ ye take as big a role in thi’ as he has.:: Ironhide mentions to Bumblebee as they turn out of the Ops levels and towards Mirage’s room together. ::Kinda figured he’d wan’ his paws all o’re this, once he realized tha’ Optimus weren’t gonna let it go.::

::You nearly killed him, ‘Hide.::

Ironhide snorts. ::No’ hardly.::

::No, I mean -:: Bumblebee cuts off and gives him a wide-opticked look. ::Did he really cover up - ‘Hide, he was _wrecked._ ::

::Flew out th’ same cycle on a mission, so it couldn’a been tha’ bad -:: Ironhide protests, and Bumblebee makes a soft sound of disbelief.

::He didn’t _fly out,_ ‘Hide, he _was flown_ out with Ipecac attending after you _cracked his spark casing!_ :: As astonished as Bumblebee looks, it’s nothing to match the stare Ironhide is giving right back. ::If you slammed him into a wall another time or two, _he’d be dead._ ::

::Huh.:: It’s a lot to reflect on, and Ironhide considers it, thoughtfully, for a klik. ::Shoulda hit ‘im inta a wall a few more times, sounds like.::

:: _’Hide!_ :: The looks on Bumblebee’s face at _that_ bit of sedition is mortified.

::Ye haven’ spent a night wi’ th’ kid, Bee. He ain’ too bad in th’ day, but… I bin makin’ excuses ta go ‘round wi’ some warm ‘geon an’ sit wi’ him ‘til he’s out, ‘cause if I don’, he don’ sleep.:: Ironhide lets a rumble escape from deep within his chest. ::Sometimes it still don’ work, an’ he ‘charges fer a joor or two an’ wakes screamin’.::

::Oh.:: Bumblebee looks - horrified at that, in a way that Ironhide can’t help but find gratifying. ::Primus.::

::Yeah - Leg fragged ‘im up good, considerin’ ‘e only ‘ad ‘im fer a couple’a joors.:: Ironhide lets out another grumble. ::Wouldn’a been sad ta hear I’d been th’ one ta give ‘im what’s ‘is.::

Bumblebee reaches out, presses a hand to his elbow. ::It’s good you didn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to Optimus, doing that to him.::

::I know - it’s just… slag, ye know? Slag.::

He falls quiet as they approach the East Wing, brushing past security with little more than a friendly wave. Bumblebee doesn’t pester him as they reach Mirage’s chambers, turning instead to greet the guard with a friendly smile. 

“Is Mirage available to speak?”

“I’ll inquire.” The guard - Glaive, Ironhide thinks, a Kalisite - gives a decorious bow and turns to rap politely against the door. There’s a noise from within, and a pause - 

“Of course, sirs. Mirage would be pleased to meet with you. He invites you to make yourselves comfortable - he’s just tidying up.”

Ironhide gives the guard an approving grin before brushing past him. “Keep up th’ good work, kid.”

They settle on the couches together - Ironhide grabbing a cube from the dispenser while Bumblebee unsubspaces, examines, and peels the seal from his own. They don’t have long to wait - Mirage appears after only a breem, plating polished to a bright gleam, plating fluffed to clear the excess heat of a broiling-hot shower.

::He’s looking better, at least,:: Bumblebee comments as he greets the other mech, and Ironhide has to agree - some of the sallowness of his field has faded over the last few cycles, and Mirage’s smile as he returns the greetings doesn’t have the same hunted shadow that it has.

“Good ta see ye, too, kid,” Ironhide replies, when Mirage turns to greet him. “Do ye wan’ ta grab yerself a cube? Me ‘n Bee had a bit of slag we wanted ta talk over wi’ ye. Nothin’ bad - just wanted ta let ye know wha’ th’ next few vorn’r gonna be like.”

“Oh.” Mirage hesitates before stepping over to the dispenser, filling himself a cube with sweet cobalt before returning to the couch. “What do I need to know?”

“Well, first off, there’s what we’re telling mechs.” Bumblebee pauses. “Obviously, you will need to maintain this story publicly - and in private, with mechs who aren’t already aware of your circumstances. That is - myself, Ironhide, Shockwave, the Prime - there are others, but you’ll be made aware beforehand if there’s any need for them to discuss it with you. Your Hound knows, as well - one of our operatives has already been by to… make sure that he understands the situation.”

At the look of alarm in Mirage’s optics, Bumblebee raises his hands. “He’s fine, mech. We informed him that you were alive, and asked him to keep his silence. He’s a good mech - in no danger from us, as long as he doesn’t start spreading tales.”

“He won’t.” Mirage’s voice is confident as he relaxes. “Neither will I - what am I supposed to claim happened?”

“Officially, you and your entire family, as well as a handful of servants, were on a journey together when the train you were riding derailed - tragically killing everymech who wasn’t you.” Bumblebee gives a soft hum of amusement. “You were rescued from the crash, and brought to Iacon to recover, while all of the movements that might have been observed - us placing guards at your family’s estate, and so on - have been the Prime generously acting in secret to ensure your situation wasn’t taken advantage of.”

“That’s…” The doubt in the young noble’s voice says enough.

“Absurd, yeah. It’s supposed to be.” Bumblebee flicks a hand in the air. “The thing is - we really don’t want word getting out that Optimus spared you after an assassination - but there are plenty of _less-_ significant forms of treason where it would be more reasonable to leave a member of the family alive to take over the House. Problem is, we don’t know enough about the intimate details of House Twisted Glass’ political dealings to fake any one specific story convincingly - so it’s better to leave things vague. Everymech who needs to will hear that and know what it means - all we need you to do is stick to it.”

“Stick to it?”

“Anymech asks, and your family died in a train accident, you’re very upset, but you don’t want to talk about it.” Mirage makes a soft noise of agreement. “Anymech pushes, and you repeat that, and get in touch with me - if they keep asking, I’ll have a mech sent around to ask some questions about why they’re so interested.” Bumblebee shrugs. “Basic Ops stuff - you won’t need to worry about it.”

“I can do that.” Mirage hesitates for a moment. “And this - vassalage. I don’t know what that… I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is.”

“A vassalage is - it’s not a _bad thing,_ Mirage. Even if your family _had_ died in a train accident, it’s what I, at least, would have recommended.” Bumblebee pauses. “The Lords don’t like the idea of the Prime having that much influence over one of their own, but… well. You aren’t ready to run a whole house on your own.”

“No.” That, at least, Mirage agrees to readily. “So - what does it do? What do _I_ do?”

“You’ll swear fealty to the Prime, after - once you inherit House Twisted Glass.” Bumblebee gives a vague gesture. “There’s a formal phrasing for it - it’s nothing complicated. Optimus will accept your oath, and make his own -”

“His own?” Mirage’s optics widen.

“He’s - this isn’t just to make sure you’re loyal, Mirage. We know you’re loyal, or you… well, it wouldn’t be an issue.” Bumblebee reaches out, lets a hand rest on the noble’s knee. “It’s to protect you, too. House Twisted Glass is powerful, even with only one mech at the helm - there’s plenty of mechs who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage. But they’ll think twice of directly challenging the Prime.”

“I didn’t -” Mirage pauses, calculating his words. “I hadn’t realized that there was such a… reciprocity.”

“Optimus will be responsible for - well, you.” Bumblebee meets his optics with a nod. “Your education, monitoring the state of your affairs, ensuring that alliances and bondmatches are appropriate - the responsibilities that would have been your sire’s. In return, he’ll expect your loyalty, and the support of your House, once you’ve matured enough to fully assume your place as Lord. A few centivorns, perhaps - not long.”

“That’s… He’s been very kind to me.”

Bumblebee nods again. “He has. There will be other expectations. Ones unrelated to your oath.”

“Like?” Mirage shifts, uneasily, but Bumblebee smiles, and he settles.

“Nothing bad. Ops will be… observing you. Nothing obtrusive - just keeping an optic on comings and goings, expenditures, travels.” 

“An’ I’ll be poppin’ by from time ta time in person.” Ironhide offers. “Technically, yer ta make th’ estate available ta any o’ th’ Prime’s agents tha’ want ta sniff ‘round, but it was ‘greed upon by mutual consensus tha’ I’d handle th’ majority o’ it. It won’ be a big deal - consider it a social visit wi’ a bit o’ a nosey guest.”

“It will be a pleasure to have you.” Mirage bows his helm deferentially, and Ironhide grins.

“Beyond that… you’ll be spending at least a quarter of every vorn at the Palace.” Mirage’s gaze shoots up in surprise at that, and Bumblebee pauses. “Not so we can spy on you, Mirage. As the Prime’s vassal, you’re going to be in the public optic - and you’ve got no experience at court. That’s not something that you’ll learn without being immersed in it.”

“Ye’ll have help.” Ironhide assures him. “Shockwave, an’ me an’ Bee - I promise, it ain’ gonna be - well, it’s gonna be slaggin’ terrible, but not ‘cause ye don’ know what ta do. Court’s jus’ like tha’.”

Bumblebee laughs. “Not everymech hates court as much as ‘Hide, Mirage. You’ll get used to it, I promise. Some of it’s even fun. But it’ll be a while before that becomes an issue, anyways. No one will expect you at court for - well, at least a decavorn, maybe more.” There’s a note of apology to Bumblebee’s next words, and a soft pulse of his field. “You’ll have time to ready yourself - and mourn, if you need it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Sorry fer huntin’ ye up this late - I only jus’ got word.” Ironhide settles on the couch with a bit of a grumble, gesturing for Mirage to sit with him, and the younger mech does, curling against his side with cube in hand. “Didn’ mean ta keep ye up.”

“It’s not like I was sleeping, sir.” There’s just a hint of bitterness, at that, but Mirage doesn’t linger on it. “You said that there was something you needed to tell me about - about my family?”

Ironhide lets out a heavy vent. “Yeah. Th’ trial’s goin’ ta be in three cycles, kid.” Ironhide pauses, watches to see how Mirage will react, but the young noble only nods. “It’s… not gonna be a grand affair. Ops has th’ evidence o’ what they was doin’, an’ it don’ take a lotta mechs - not fer a crime like this. Ye don’ hafta - I know ye said you wanted to testify, but…”

Mirage is quiet for a long, long moment. Then, very softly, he says, “I want to be there. Sir.”

“It’s gonna be rough, kid. There’s gonna be mechs that’re scared, an’ willin’ ta say whatever they gotta ta make ye pity ‘em - make _Prime_ pity ‘em.” He runs a hand down Mirage’s back gently. “There’s gonna be mechs that know they’re slagged, an’ blame ye.”

“I - I want to see them. I -” he trails off, field a riot. “I don’t _understand -_ ”

The noble’s shoulders shake with a sob, and he curls inward - but Ironhide doesn’t let him pull away, drags him across his lap so that he can wrap his arms around the trembling frame. He lets his fingers trace over the noble’s helm soothingly. “‘S alright, kid. ‘S gonna be alright. I know - I know, it ain’ fair ta ye, none o’ this is, but yer gonna be fine -”

It’s kliks before Mirage manages to cry himself out, ventilations scratching with exhaustion. Ironhide holds him like that, too, quiet for a klik, before asking, gently, “Yer sure, mech?”

“I want to see it.” Mirage looks up at him, yellow optics flickering, and there’s steel and a shard of anger in his gaze. “I want to hear my - my sire explain himself.”

He goes silent again, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. “I - I want to watch them die.”

“Kid -”

“I know it’s - I know it’s not -” The optics squeeze shut, and Mirage’s field twists. “I just want to know that they’re dead, and not -”

He goes silent, and Ironhide doesn’t say anything - doesn’t do anything to push. Finally, he speaks again, and his voice is very, very quiet.

“I hear it. Every night - and I just want to - to know they’re gone.”

“Oh.” Ironhide lets his own optics shutter. “I’ll - I’ll talk ta Optimus, kid. See if - see what kind’a arrangements we kin make. I can’t promise…” He lets out a vent. “I’ll see what I can do fer ye.”

“Stay?” And there’s a pleading edge to Mirage’s voice.

“Of course, kid. As long as ye need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hng I got started on next chapter and realized that everything seemed really sudden if I just went straight to the trial, so: one-shots! Because there is about a two-orn period between the assassination attempt and Ops completing their investigations and being ready to handle executions. Of course, that's not the end of the investigation - there'll be a lot more going on in the background as Ops scours for anyone else who might've had a hand in things - but generally timeliness is considered key in situations like this, and one of the conveniences of just killing everymech is that you don't need to waste time with anything more than a perfunctory trial, and don't need to worry about accidentally letting guilty mechs go free - or innocent mechs getting radicalized by seeing their kin executed.
> 
> That'll be a concern for next chapter, though! For now, Mirage is getting a chance to calm down, some - doing SCIENCE! with Red Alert, learning about the intricacies of running his House with Shockwave, wandering the gardens with Bumblebee. He's fairly young at this point - around 2-3 centivorns younger than Prowl's age in the main plot, actually, but he's been raised sheltered, and nobles tend to have a longer 'childhood' because they spend a lot more time learning things like art, music, conversation and other things to make them better able to fit into high society. So he might not have an advanced degree like Prowl, but he does know how to hunt turbofoxes, play several instruments, and avoid humiliation by potential rivals during a fancy dinner. :D
> 
> In terms of his powers, how do they work? IDK. I thought that having him be invisible to sensors would be neat, and I stand by that, but then I realized that he'd still cast a shadow, so ??? at this point. Neither does Red, who just seems relieved that gravity still has an effect. Honestly, there are a bunch of good ways to keep a mech like Mirage out - pressure sensors is one, doors with motion sensors set up to alarm if _no one's_ moving through when the door opens, beaded curtains that will show that someone's moving through - probably soft floors like shag carpet or sand that show footprints, too, though those aren't used on Cybertron much. And, of course, the fact that air still has to flow around him, though that takes specialized sensors to detect and IDK if you'd be able to automate it.
> 
> AND SHOCKWAVE! I love him. Picture Ironhide in this scene giving him the How To Train Your Dragon thumbs up - he's trying! In this AU he's... well, more well-adjusted. He got empurata'd by the Quints as part of an evil experiment rather than by the Autobots, and he's got a strong support network, so he's not gone evil. Basically, they severed part of the connection between spark and processor - he still has emotions in his spark, but they don't get translated to his processor, so they get dumped as junk data instead. It makes empathy very difficult - he's basically slowly relearning how to relate to other mechs, but it's by rote rather than on an emotional level. Eventually, given time, he'll recover to a point where he can interact basically normally, and he's not discontent with it - of course, he can't really _be_ discontent. He can remember what it was like to have emotions, but not make the connection between feeling a way and what caused it. He does understand that there are positive and negative emotions, though, so given guidance, he does try not to hurt people.
> 
> Meanwhile, Prowl is an example of 'processor plasticity'. Basically, just like a human with serious brain damage will use other parts of their brain to do the thinking, he uses his ATS rather than his damaged emotional processors to handle it! I know a lot of people expected Ratchet to be upset about it, but this is actually an example of healthy function in an injured mech - it's not a coping strategy, it's recovery. It does have issues - mostly that as the ATS boots he gets less able to handle emotional input - but that's a lot better than the alternative, which is not being able to process the data at all. 
> 
> Anyways, there's a lot I'd like to fiddle with in this chapter, but TBH I'm not feeling it and there's a lot to get to in the next one, so... I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter is the trial, and after that, HOUND! Then possibly another of these one-shot things as Mirage joins Ops, followed by the Legend affair, and then rounding things out with the post-bonding stuff from The Talk, which will get us right up to present day. This is looking a little longer than I planned, but, well :D it isn't a race!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who gave input on the last chapter - and I posted a short 'one-shot collection' with a story about Ratchet and Wheeljack's fabled super-long bonding, if you're interested!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of past child abuse

::So - Mirage is still insistent on attending the trial, then?:: Optimus’ field is curious, but his frame is impassive as he stands, stock-still, in the center of the temple’s baths. It’s an awkward place to talk, but there is no better opportunity - just a brief window between the trial proper and the joors of silent contemplation of the pools.

The detailers - all minor priests in their own right, and painted with light silver runes that belay their own joors of preparation for the sacred task of sanctifying a Prime - whirl around them, polishing, perfecting, tracing elegant lines of gold along the edge of Optimus’ armor - and, much to Ironhide’s irritation, his own. Still, he holds his place as best he can - frustrating as it may be, he won’t disgrace Optimus by ruining his own glyphs.

::He is,:: he replies, instead, grateful for the distraction. ::I tried dissuadin’ ‘im, but… it’s importan’ ta ‘im. I didn’ push.::

::Then I hope it gives him what he needs.:: Optimus hums approvingly, low in his chest. ::Where is he, now? I half expected him to have followed along with you.::

::Bee ‘gree’d ta distract ‘im fer th’ mornin’. I’da brought ‘im myself, otherwise, but I figger’d it’d be better not ta have ‘im underpede _thinkin’_ ‘bout slag.:: Ironhide lets out a low grumble as another elegant whorl is painted across his plating - the elegant spirals and loops that mark him, not as bodyguard, but as the Prime’s chosen executioner.

::They’ve been getting on well, then?:: Optimus is more sedate as his own giltwork is added - a daily ritual, for him. He ignores the priest chanting prayers as the work is done with an expert’s aplomb as he shifts, obligingly, for the artists.

::Like a shuttle on fire.:: Ironhide grins, ignoring the soft noise of protest from the mech detailing his helm. ::Kid latched right on, jus’ like ye expected - I’ll ‘mit I was a bit worried, didn’ know how he’d do, wi’ Bee bein’ an Op, but Bee’s good at bein’ likeable.::

::I’m glad.:: Optimus lets out a carefully controlled vent. ::He’ll need friends. You’ve done wonderful work with him, but…::

::I can’t always be there.:: Ironhide starts to nod before changing to a hum of agreement. ::Bee’ll be better a’ chasin’ ‘im ‘round a’ court, too - an’ less obtrusive than ‘im havin’ ta tote ‘wave ‘round all th’ time.::

::True.:: There’s a splash of amusement to Optimus’ tone, at that. ::Shockwave seems to think their lessons are going well.::

::Kid’s smart as a whip, fer sure.:: Ironhide agrees. ::Jus’ - young. He’ll get th’ hang o’ slag - an’ it ain’ like he don’ have time ta figure things out. ‘S a hard thing, fer one mech ta bankrupt a House.::

::True.::

They both fall silent as High Priest Singularus strides into the room, approaching the pair of them before stooping to offer a long, deep, _graceful_ bow to Optimus. “ _Ia Priima._ ” The second bow he offers to Ironhide - shorter, but no less respectful. “ _Demiothha Yronhitte._ ”

It takes a moment for Ironhide’s own translation protocols to resettle on the sweeping syllabics of the Primal Vernacular - the language is difficult, compared to his native Yussan, consonants slurring together lyrically. Still, he manages it quick enough to respond in the same language. “ _Singularus._ ” He doesn’t offer anything beyond that - his role, in this, is not as speaker, and Singularus accepts the single-word greeting with a polite nod of his helm.

“ _My Prime - Epoch has informed me that the interlopers_ -” and there’s some ornate glyphwork that Ironhide doesn’t bother translating, there - “ _have been made ready for Your will. Whenever You are ready, my Prime._ ”

“ _Another klik, I think. To let the pigments set._ ” For the first time in almost a joor, Optimus moves, raising his hands to examine the elegant linework - delicately-phrased scripture that tells the story of the first Primes, if Ironhide remembers correctly, though the ancient, formal script wrapped around Optimus’ wrists and trailing up his arms is beyond his ability to read. “You’ve done beautiful work, all of you. You have my gratitude.” He offers in Iaconi, the praise earning him a buzz of excited energy from the younger priests.

“ _In service of Primus’ will,_ ” offers a particularly bold one, ducking his helm when Optimus favors him with a fond smile.

They wait, a little awkwardly, for another klik, as the priests gather up their supplies - then Optimus brushes a finger across the back of his hand, giving a satisfied rumble when the paint there doesn’t smudge. “ _I think we are ready, Singularus._ ”

“ _Of course, my Prime._ ”

Singularus leads them out into the hallway. It’s been cleared, though Ironhide catches a glimpse of one or two younger mechs - acolytes, from their plating, not yet fully inducted to the priesthood - glancing out from the doorways. One gives an audible squeak as Ironhide catches his optic, ducking back behind the door, and Singularus turns his own gaze on the door with a stern look - but Optimus places a hand on his shoulder with an amused look, leaning forward to murmur something in his audial, and the lithe priest nods.

Still, there’s something subtly _off_ to the way Optimus holds himself when he steps back, even though his field is as glassy-calm as ever. ::You alright, Optimus?:: Ironhide comms on a whim, pinging the other mech with :: _Status: update?_ :: as if they were still in the field.

::I’m fine, Ironhide. I know what I’m doing.:: Optimus shrugs, following the High Priest out into the hall. ::Legend briefed me. Singularus briefed me. _You’ve_ briefed me, Ironhide.::

He goes silent for a moment. ::I just - I don’t know if what I’m doing is _right_.::

::Oh.:: It’s… not what Ironhide had expected - and he’s not sure what to say. _Crises_ are his forte - not crises of faith.

::I just…:: Optimus goes quiet again, as if searching for the words to explain himself. ::Mirage doesn’t deserve to be executed for his family’s crimes.::

::I’m with ye,:: Ironhide agrees when Optimus doesn’t continue.

::What about the rest of them, then?:: Ironhide doesn’t have an answer for that - isn’t _entirely_ sure that he’s getting the thrust of Optimus’ issue - so he stays silent. ::What if - I don’t know. Twisted Glass is a large family - they can’t _all_ have been -::

He cuts off, but Ironhide gets the gist of it - enough, at least, for an answer.

::Th’ kid saved yer life, Optimus.:: Ironhide lets that sink in for a moment. ::Th’ rest o’ them - they _knew_ , an’ they didn’ do slag. But th’ kid - his sire put th’ knife in ‘is hand, an’ he tossed it back in ‘is face. Tha’s what ‘e did ta _earn_ yer mercy. Th’ rest o’ them…::

::Primus is merciful.:: Optimus opines, softly, and Ironhide nods.

::An’ Primus willin’, ye won’ hafta do many o’ these.:: Privately, he doesn’t expect that. Optimus isn’t popular with the nobles - and Ops is _very_ good at ferreting out insurrection. Still, there’s no point in dwelling on future violence when there’s energon still to be shed. ::Jus’ - try not ta think on it, too hard. They knew wha’ they were doin’ - an’ knew th’ risk. An’ I promise ye, if they’d succeeded, they’d’a handed th’ Primacy o’er ta a mech worse than Sentinel, an’ torn up all tha’ ye’ve managed ta achieve in th’ doin’.”

 _That’s_ the right note to hit - it’s obvious from the way Optimus straightens, just slightly, the renewed set to his shoulders as they stride into the grand chamber - and up to the dais itself, where a double handful of seats have been prepared. Despite the formality of the trial itself, the seating is almost casual - a small cluster of chairs behind the grander seat for Optimus, a podium for High Priest Singularus, and a long, raised platform for the accused.

Legend is already seated - off to what will be Optimus’ left. He’s working on a datapad - but he slips it away as Singularus enters, rising to his pedes respectfully as Optimus approaches. Ironhide ignores him - waiting until Optimus is seated, regally, to step away to stand at his right shoulder, swinging his axe up to grip it in both hands before locking out his frame. 

Around them, the voices of the priesthood rise in a chorus - a lilting, sweeping elegy to Primus’ will; an intercession for mercy, and a prayer for wisdom. It echoes hauntingly along the sweeping roof of the chamber, mixing with the pale morning light that glints down from crystal-paned windows to cascade across the floor.

It’s a few kliks before the handful of other attendants arrive - one or two operatives that he doesn’t recognize, trailed by Elita’s raptorous frame. It’s most of the expected audience - atypically, there will be no Senatorial presence, no lords attending.

Bumblebee arrives after another klik, Mirage trailing behind. He looks - not well, but not as bad as Ironhide had expected, if he’s honest. There’s a shadow to his optics, but the worst of the dark cast of exhaustion that’s been trailing him is faded.

Bumblebee leads him over to the seats behind Ironhide, settling into the innermost one - but Mirage pauses, hesitating, as he settles into the outer. “Ironhide.” He bows his helm politely, and Ironhide gives him a stern nod in reply - before, on a whim, pinging the smaller mech his comm codes.

::Hey, kid,:: he sends when Mirage pings his own in reply, opening a neat channel between them. ::How’re ye holdin’ up?::

::I’m… as well as can be expected, I think.:: Mirage glances away, arm rising across his chest defensively. ::I - I want to be here, but… I’m sorry. You’re not going to get in trouble for talking to me, are you?::

::Kid, I am th’ trouble.:: He lets his fingers resettle on the hilt of the axe, and sees Mirage’s optics widen, just a bit. ::But - nah. Ain’ nomech gonna mind a bit o’ chatter - not ‘til th’ priests’re done singin’. After tha’, yeah, we’ll gotta be quiet.::

::Alright.:: Mirage pauses. ::Have you - have you done something like this, before?::

::Not since Sentinel were Prime - an’ only once or twice, e’en then. He was… well, ‘e was harsher ‘bout slag like this, but ‘e was popular, too. ‘Least wi’ th’ lords.:: _Cruel_ , he wants to say, but the thought of disrespecting a Prime, even a dead one, in Primus’ hall stills his tongue. ::There were more ‘ttempts, earlier on in ‘is reign, but I weren’ his executioner, then.::

::How…:: Mirage pauses. ::How bad is it, usually?::

::Th’ trial?:: Ironhide asks, letting out a soft - almost imperceptible - rumble when Mirage gives a very faint nod. He can feel Optimus shift, curiously, besides him, and sends a quick ping of apology to the other mech before refocusing on Mirage. ::They can get… rough. Ain’ any sorta - _violence_ \- usually, th’ Priests’re good a’ their jobs an’ know how ta keep mechs where they aught ta be, but… there’ll be shoutin’. Swearin’, usually. Lots’a beggin’.::

MIrage doesn’t say anything to that, and Ironhide presses out comfortingly with his field as the priest’s voices rise in another arching chorus. ::I… everymech here knows why yer hear, kid. These trials ain’ public - if it gets ta be too much, or… if ye feel like ye’ve heard what ye need ta, ye kin jus’ - leave. Ain’ no mech gonna judge ye fer it - an’ nomech’s gonna think th’ less o’ ye.::

::Bumblebee said the same thing.:: Mirage’s comm is… delicate. As if there’s something that will break, if pushed. ::I… want to stay til the end, if I can. See it all. They’re here because of me.::

::They’re here ‘cause o’ th’ slag _they did_ , kid. An’ I’ve told ye tha’.:: Ironhide pauses - with his own field flared, he can feel the guilt roiling in Mirage’s field, pulled tight against his frame. Bumblebee can, too - it’s obvious from the way he reaches up to catch Mirage’s hand in his own. ::Ye did th’ right thing, ‘Raj. Ain’ no point in torturin’ yerself over it.::

Mirage gives another delicate nod, but, as the song reaches its peak and spirals back down towards silence, he doesn’t say anything else.

As the last echoes of music die out, Singularus approaches the podium, plating loose, the delicate plates of his helm armor flared to halo his face like a sun. He bows his helm low to Optimus, before launching into the Primal Liturgy - a long, florid prayer that Ironhide has _absolutely_ no intention of actually listening to.

He sets a timer - he’s heard the ancient prayers often enough to know _exactly_ how long this is going to take - and pulls up a Tidek sim. It’s not particularly challenging, but it’s enough to keep him distracted, until, at last, the alarm pings him, and he sets the program to background processing just as Singularus finishes his prayer.

He shifts, just slightly, on his pedes, and doesn’t miss the slight, amused look Optimus shoots him, out of sight from the other watching mechs.

“We are gathered here, today, for a judgement.” Singularus sweeps his arms wide, and to this, Ironhide does actually pay attention - unlike the rote Liturgy, the rest of the High Priest’s statements have been written _for_ the trial, in no small part with Optimus’ help. “To see to it that Primus’ word is heard, and that His will is carried out, in light of a most heinous crime.”

He gestures, sweepingly, at Optimus. “The mechs who have been brought here are guilty of a single and terrible act: conspiracy against the Body of Primus - the attempted slaying of a Prime. Those foremost to the conspiracy have confessed - and stand, unrepentant, in their defiance. It is a crime for which there can be no excuse.” There’s a moment where he pauses, meeting each of their optics in turn, before bowing his helm again. “Primus’ will may be, at times, beyond comprehension - the workings of His artifice beyond the understanding of we, who are but cogs within His grand design. That which makes the Matrix choose one mech, and spurn another - it is a thing as incalculable as the rusting of metal or the flaring of stars, though no less purposeful. But it is not for mere mecha to question His choice - or seek, through wicked intrigue, to force Him to choose again.”

It’s an interesting enough take on the situation - far less effusive than anything Sentinel would have permitted, certainly. Still, as Singularus continues, Ironhide lets his focus drift again - this time to the list of mechs to be brought before Optimus.

It’s a long one - over thirty mechs, though only six are marked out as direct co-conspirators. There are at least two more he knows of - both commoners, not the sort of mechs to require judgement from the Prime himself - a large conspiracy, by any measure, even discounting the involvement of the rest of the House.

“Phantasm, of House Twisted Glass.”

Ironhide refocuses when the name is called, and the grand doors on the left side of the chamber open to admit a bound mech - and the pair of white-armored priest-guardians escorting him.

He hears a slight - very slight - intake of breath from behind himself as the prisoner is led into the room, a soft, sparkbroken sound. Bumblebee shifts, slightly, as if to offer a comforting touch - but Ironhide, however much he might want to, can’t look back to offer the same.

Phantasm looks - _haggard_ , is the first word to come to mind. His optics are dim with exhaustion, whole frame sagging, as if even the weight of his own armor is too much to bear. There aren’t any marks across his plating, from torture or the battle - but Ops has medics trained to hide such things, and there’s a heavy set to the mech’s right pede as he’s forced to mount the platform that betrays an injury gone unrepaired, and a soft his of pain when he’s thrown to his knees.

Mirage, behind him, has gone entirely silent, and Ironhide pauses to check the file on the grey-plated mech - the oldest of the blue noble’s brothers. 

“Phantasm of House Twisted Glass.” Singularus speaks, voice crisp, reproving, but not angry. “You stand confessed to treason - to Conspiracy against the Body of Primus. It is a high crime, one for which the only justice can be found in death. Do you wish to address the Prime before your sentence is laid out?”

There’s a long moment of silence - then the grey-armored mech nods. “My Lord Prime -” 

His voice is ragged - lost, as if he isn’t quite sure how to speak anymore. It catches, clicking, for a moment, and Phantasm’s helm bobs as he resets it, optics taking on a frightened cast, but Optimus doesn’t make any movement to hurry him along until he can speak again. “My Lord Prime. I’m - I’m sorry.” He goes quiet for another klik, then, voice hardly more than a whisper - “If I could ask your - your intercession, on my behalf - for a, for a fool -”

“You shall have it.” Optimus bows his helm, solemnly, for just a moment. “In Primus’ name.”

“Thank you -” The mech manages to choke out, before, again, falling silent - and there’s a faint, relieved ventilation from behind Ironhide, not quite enough to be a sob.

He doesn’t say anything else, and, after another moment, Optimus pings Ironhide. ::You know -::

::I got it, Optimus. Yer doin’ good.::

Ironhide steps forwards, axe in hand, shoulders straight back - whole frame stiffly formal as he pronounces the sentence. “In the Prime’s name - death by execution. Primus take your spark.” Just as firmly, he steps back, resuming his place at Optimus’ side as the crack of his echoing voice fades around them. Phantasm slumps in his attendant priests’ grasps.

They haul him to his pedes easily - taking the weight of his frame as they guide him off of the platform and away from the dais. It’s not until the door clicks shut behind them that Singularus reads off the next name.

“Dichroic, of House Twisted Glass.”

This time, the mech in question looks _much_ worse. Even beneath the glossy, repaired paint, there’s obvious patchwelding - areas where whole strips of armor must have been too badly damaged to simply repair, replaced with broad, flat plates of metal. There’s barely-concealed damage beneath the plating, too - bright white crystalline scarring visible against protoform, the obvious mark of electricity used to weal the delicate mesh.

One of the mech’s arms hangs low and loose in it’s socket, and Ironhide notes it as a mark against Legend before taking it back - it’s only as Dichroic is lead into the light that he can see the vicious inbuilt dagger half-torn from it’s housing, locked in place by a pair of deep-driven bolts.

The red mech’s gaze is defiant - hot with anger; his optics, a deep amber lens, are like brilliant embers against the dark lines of his face. He snarls and mock-lunges as he’s forced onto the platform - one of the priests expertly sweeps his legs out from under him as his weight surges forwards, however, and he slams, with a grunt, to his knees.

“Dichoric of House Twisted Glass.” This time, Singularus pauses, as a rippling snarl escapes the pinned mech - the priest at his right side abandoning the useless arm to place a hand along his back, forcing him down when he tries to lunge again. “You stand confessed to treason - of Conspiracy against the Body of Primus. It is a high crime, one for which the only justice can be found in death. Do you wish to address the Prime before your sentence is laid out?”

“Frag yourself!” The mech roars the word, and Ironhide lets out a rumble. He would - _could_ \- step forwards and take the other mech’s helm for the sheer _disrespect_ \- but Optimus doesn’t gesture him forwards, so he stands, stoic, and holds his temper as the mech makes another futile attempt to lash out, slamming his weight towards the priest on his left. The priest doesn’t even flinch, firm as a rock. “Frag yourself - all of you - I hope whoever _does_ kill you makes it _painful,_ -”

It’s Singularus who intercedes - he raises a single hand for silence. When Dichoric ignores him, he makes a single, sharp gesture - and one of the priests reaches down and tears out the snarling noble’s vocalizer in one smooth and terrible stroke.

“Apologies, my Prime.” He lowers his hand, turning back to his podium as Dichoric crackles, a staticy, low noise of pain. “If I might ask for intercession on his behalf?”

“He shall have it,” Optimus offers, with a nod. ::Ironhide?::

“In the Prime’s name - death by execution.” The mech thrashes in the priests’ grips for a moment before slumping to glare up at him, and Ironhide pauses, just long enough for quiet. “Primus take your spark.”

There’s a low and weedy whine as the priests haul Dichoric off of the platform - he doesn’t bother to walk, and they’re left to drag him towards the doors with an echoing scrape of his pedes.

Finally, it ends, and Singularus takes a moment to compose himself before offering the next name.

“Anneal, of House Twisted Glass.” 

This time, the mech brought out is a femme - in better condition, at least to first glance, than either of her siblings. There’s a fierceness to her glare to match her brother’s, though - and, as she turns, Ironhide can make out welds over long, deep lacerations in her plating. 

She doesn’t resist the priests, however - not when they drag her up to the platform, nor when they force her to her knees before Optimus. 

“Anneal of House Twisted Glass.” The femme’s gaze doesn’t flicker from the dark glare she’s offering Optimus. “You stand confessed to treason - to Conspiracy against the Body of Primus. It is a high crime, one for which the only justice can be found in death. Do you wish to address the Prime before your sentence is laid out?”

“No.”

She doesn’t say anything else - not to snarl, nor to beg for intercession, and, after a moment’s silence, Optimus pings him forwards. 

“In the Prime’s name.” He pauses - giving her one last chance to speak, before he pronounces the sentence - but she stays stubbornly silent, optics raised, defiantly, to his. “Death by execution. Primus take your spark.”

Behind him, very faintly, he hears Mirage sob. It’s - one, hiccupy sound, and then nothing more than a heavy venting, but it’s obvious, from the way Optimus’ helm tilts, just slightly, that he’s noticed, too. He goes still, for a moment - and, as Anneal is lead out of the room, makes a slight gesture to Singularus - who pauses, obviously listening to something, and then nods his helm, just briefly, in accision. 

There’s another klik of quiet - Mirage’s soft, stressed ventilations and the slight sounds of Bumblebee moving to comfort him the only thing that can be heard in the silence of the chamber - before Singularus bows his helm again. 

“Shroud, of House Twisted Glass.”

 _That_ gets a soft noise of surprise - this time, not from Mirage, but from Elita, who’s seen the list of condemned mechs and knows that he’s been called out of place. Ironhide, though, brushes gratitude towards Optimus.

::He wanted to hear his sire explain himself.:: Optimus’ voice is soft, even over the comms, but Ironhide almost jerks in surprise at being spoken to at all - it’s not, strictly speaking, decorious, but then, there’s no mech who can reprimand the _Prime_ for blaspheme. ::Hopefully - hopefully this will be enough.::

::Thanks.:: Ironhide pauses, fighting the urge to let out a heavy vent. ::Think Bee’ll -::

::I’ve already told him to try to get Mirage to leave. Not to - to make a fuss of it, but…:: Optimus goes quiet, for a moment. ::All of his siblings - all the mechs he’s ever _known_ -::

::It’s a lot.:: Ironhide agrees, quietly, as the doors to the chamber open, and Lord Shroud is brought through. ::Yer doin’ good, mech. Jus’ - yer doin’ good.::

Optimus pings back appreciation, attention already returning to the mech being led to the dais. He watches, cold-opticked, as Shroud is forced to his knees - and Ironhide, out of the corner of his own optics, watches him.

“Shroud of House Twisted Glass.” Shroud lets out a snarl at the address - but whatever titles he holds have already been stripped from him, by Primal dictate, and Singularus doesn’t waver. “You stand, without title, accused of treason - named a dozen times over as helm of a conspiracy against the Body of Primus. It is a high crime, one for which the only justice can be found in death. Do you wish to address the Prime before your sentence is laid out?”

Shroud glares at Optimus - then his gaze flickers to Ironhide, who meets it with a level stare. Then - _then_ \- it falls on Mirage, and his optics flicker in surprise - and then widen in realization.

“ _You._ ” There’s a snarled edge to the word - and behind him, Ironhide can here Mirage’s vents choke and reset in alarm. “You - traitor. _Kinslayer!_ You’ve brought House Twisted glass to its knees - and for what? To keep a _commoner_ on the throne?”

There’s a panicked vent - a scrambling noise, and the thud of something falling - Ironhide pings Bumblebee in alarm, and the agent pings back - just an image, a still frame: Mirage, on his pedes, staring, terrified, up at his sire, chair fallen behind him -

There’s a soft click, as if he’s trying to say something, but whatever it is, his vocalizer has already failed him. Shrouds face curls in a hideous sneer.

“Worthless _glitch_ \- your sigma was the only thing about you worthy of my line, but even then, you failed me - wretched, useless _thing -_ ”

He cuts of with a cry of pain as the nearest priest strikes him, hard, across the face, optics flaring in anger. Ironhide can’t blame the mech - the word Shroud uses for ‘thing’ is that of an unsparked drone, a demotion of Mirage to something less than sparked, and it makes anger rumble in his own engines.

Optimus raises a hand - and his voice. “Enough.”

The priest steps back, abashed, but Shroud’s optics lock on the Prime, and he spits - the gesture stained with energon, one optic flickering wildly from the priest’s blow - at the floor between them. “And you - _vermin._ Less worthy than even him - at least he was forged worthwhile. _You_ should have died a _drone!_ ”

It’s an _unforgivable_ insult, and before Singularus can even raise a hand or gesture to the priests, Ironhide is stepping forwards, readying his axe to swing - but Optimus raises a hand, reinforcing the gesture before he can act with a single, commed ::NO.::

Ironhide freezes where he stands, axe readied. Behind him, he can hear a choked cry from Mirage.

::Announce his sentence, Ironhide.:: Optimus’ voice is commanding - his _Prime’s_ command is absolute. ::Now is not the time.::

Ironhide pings back acknowledgement - steps back to Optimus’ side, unable to keep his engine from rippling threat. Before he can speak, though, Shroud opens his mouth again, optics locking once more onto Mirage - 

\- and before he can speak, the priest at his side wrenches him sideways, his arm letting out an agonizing sound, and even as he screams, she grabs his throat. This time, there is no clean tear, however - she grabs, and squeezes, and the scream turns warped and guttered and fails as Shroud’s vocalizer is mangled. It’s only when he, again, is silent that she tosses him back to his knees - and this time, his optics don’t lock _anywhere_ , unfocused by agony and damage.

The priest bows her helm once to Optimus, apologetically, and returns to her impassive pose at the prisoner’s side.

“In the Prime’s name -” Ironhide begins - promptly, if not hurriedly, before anything else can interrupt - “death, by execution.”

If anymech notices that he leaves out the invocation of Primus, they don’t comment - not then and there, and not as Shroud is dragged out of the room.

Mirage’s fans are heavy in the quiet of the room. He’s well out of Ironhide’s sight - but he adjusts his helm a little, looking at Optimus, and instead glances back - to where Legend is gazing off to his right, disapprovingly. Elita is on her pedes, though - positioned as is to protect Optimus’ flank, plating only just settling as if from alarm, but there’s something pitying in her gaze.

::How’s th’ kid?:: He risks pinging Bumblebee, who takes just a moment to ping back.

::Not great. Do your job.:: The words are - distracted, but accompanied by another still image, and the look of horror and grief in Mirage’s optics makes his spark clench.

::Kid.:: He pauses, waiting for Mirage to respond before he continues, but Mirage doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, he comms again. ::Listen, ‘raj - go with Bee.::

That gets a ping of negation back. ::Shouldn’t - I need to -:: He trails off, helplessly, and Ironhide pushes forwards, again.

::Go, kid. They did this ta themselves - did it ta ye. Ye don’ owe ‘em _slag._ ::

There’s another moment - long, longer than it should be - of hesitation. Then, finally, Mirage pings back an affirmation.

A moment later, Bumblebee sends him a brief, relieved, ::Thank you.:: Then the comm drops, and a moment later, with a scrape of chairs, they’re going. Ironhide sets his gaze ahead once more - and manages, out of the corner of one optic, to catch just a glimpse of them leaving, Bumblebee’s hand pressed, comfortingly, to Mirage’s back.

There’s a little more shuffling, the sound of somemech - Elita? - setting a chair upright, and then only a brief pause before Singularus, once again, settles at his podium.

“Pontil, of House Twisted Glass -”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trial goes on - and on, and on; Pontil bleeds into Chimerae, bleeds into a dozen other mechs that go by in a less-interesting blur. They’re less involved, but - fortunately - none make overloud protestations of their innocence - the evidence of the whole House’s involvement is too great for that.

And then, at last, it’s over. Ironhide lets himself relax as the choir rises again in song - through the windows, the sky is the deep blue of afternoon. As the last notes fade away, Optimus, too, slumps a little.

“You did well, Optimus.” It’s Elita who’s the first to speak, stepping forwards to place a hand on his shoulder as Singularus sweeps forward.

The High Priest nods in agreement. “You did.” He offers a polite nod to Ironhide. “Both of you - I’m sorry. I know how difficult these things can be.” 

“It’s done.” But Optimus’ shoulders sag, and his optics are dim as he gazes at Singularus. “We should - we should go discuss the intercessions.”

“There’s no rush -” But Singularus must see something in Optimus’ gaze that Ironhide can’t, because he pauses - and, after a moment, bows. “Of course, my Prime.”

“I’ll be -” Optimus turns back to the rest of them with a wave of his hand. “This will take a while. I’ll comm for an escort when my work here is finished.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and Ironhide isn’t willing to cause him more stress by protesting - there are few places outside of the Prime’s own suites as safe for him as the temple. “O’ course, Optimus. Maybe me an’ ‘lita can go catch up somewhere.”

Optimus gives him a small, relieved smile, before following Singularus off of the dais and back towards the High Priest’s offices.

They wait until he’s gone to say anything. Then Elita gives a soft snort of amusement. “He’s still such a softy.” She gives Ironhide a fond grin. “Would’ve thought Megatron would’ve toughened him up by now. How about you? Holding up?”

“Eh.” He shrugs a reply, but meets her grin with one of his own. “It’s been… rough couple’a cycles, won’ lie. Ye know I hate this slag.” Ironhide doesn’t look away from her, but his next words, when he says them, are pointed - and _just_ loud enough that Legend can hear him clearly. “But don’ worry ‘bout me. I kin already tell there’s gonna be somethin’ _real satisfyin’_ ‘bout dealin’ wi’ th’ mechs that hurt tha’ poor kid.”

That gets a laugh, and an approving clap on the shoulder, from Elita - who misses the dark look Legend is giving him entirely.

“Your ‘kid’ - Mirage, was it?” Ironhide nods, and she gives a thoughtful thrum. “He seemed…”

“Stressed.” Ironhide snorts. “It’s been a slaggin’ rough couple’a orns - don’ hold it ‘gainst ‘im. Ye wanna go grab some ‘geon? I ain’ eaten anythin’ since joor three - gettin’ all o’ this -” he gestures at the giltwork - “pain’ed up.”

“Of course. Your rooms?” She gives him a warm smile, and turns to Legend. “And will you be joining us, Legend?”

His optics widen - just a touch - and he freezes for just a moment before shaking his helm. “I have - other business to attend to, this cycle.” He gives her a polite nod, before stepping away. “Good cycle - both of you.”

“Good cycle,” Ironhide offers back with a smirk, and Legend glares at him one last time before sweeping out the door.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, I’ve _got_ to know - what the _Pit_ did you do to Legend?”

Elita lounges across his couch, pedes up on the table, an amused glint in her optics as she sips from her cube. Ironhide doesn’t _quite_ manage to hide his grin as he raises his own cube to her.

“Oh, ye know. Disagreed wi’ ‘im ‘bout th’ handlin’ o’ a prisoner…” She gives a snort of disbelief at that, and he laughs. “Cracked ‘is spark casin’ by slammin’ ‘im into the wall a couple’a times…”

 _That_ gets him a shocked look. “Pit, Ironhide!” She doesn’t quite manage a tone of disapproval, though. “What the slag did he do this time?”

“Piped in th’ sound o’ th’ kid’s kin gettin’ tortured while ‘e was in Ops’ cells.” He gives a vague wave in the direction of Mirage’s rooms. “Tha’s half th’ reason ‘e’s so fragged up - hasn’ been ‘chargin’, not wi’out a whole lot’a effort, a’ least.”

“Slag.” She gives a dark look, at that. “And that was after he knew that Prime was pardoning him?”

“Not quite, but Prime’d told ‘im not ta frag wi’ th’ kid.” 

“Primus. Legend always was a fragger.” Elita’s engine grumbles - the deep, bassy thrum of flight engines. “Hard to manage at the best of times - he likes the job too much, I think.” 

“Yeah, I kin tell.” Ironhide lets out a low rumble of frustration. “Thing is - I’d’a been alright wi’ slaggin’ th’ kid, ye know? I wouldn’a enjoyed it, an’ he wouldn’a deserved it - would’a made a clean job o’ it, an’ not tried ta scare ‘im too bad a’fore, but… I know my duty, an’ I’d’a done it. But Leg…”

He doesn’t bother saying anything else - Elita’s known Legend longer than he has, has worked far closer with him than he’s ever bothered to. And she nods.

“He’s good at his job, is the problem,” she offers, after another sip of her fuel. “I mean - a giant aft, don’t get me wrong, but - he handles his agents well. He’s got a good optic for detail - and for talent.”

“An’ tha’s th’ only reason I haven’ slagged ‘im.” Ironhide nods. “I mean, tha’ an’ Optimus, but…”

He doesn’t elaborate - he and she both know it wouldn’t be the first time he’s acted first to defend his Prime, and asked permission once the frames had greyed.

“Keep an optic on him.” Her voice is… not firm, but edged like a dagger. “I… He’s a talented Op, and I would hate to lose him, but… well. If he steps too far out of line, let me know.” She pauses, significantly. “There are excuses, and then there are _excuses_ , Ironhide.”

“I’ll keep an optic out.” He agrees readily, only a little surprised at the offer of support - Elita always _has_ been one of Optimus’ firmest supporters.

She nods decisively, and then brushes on. “But - this Mirage. What _are_ Optimus’ plans for him?”

“He’s gonna inherit th’ House, provided ‘e doesn’ snap an’ off Shockwave ‘fore he can learn enuff ‘bout runnin’ one.” Ironhide chuckles, and Elita gives a fond smirk and raises her cube to that. “But - frag it if they don’ seem ta be gettin’ on, honestly. Kid’s a little sponge - jus’ wants ta be useful ta Optimus, an’ ‘e’s slaggin’ eager ‘bout it, too.”

“That’s good.” Elita nods. “Primus willing he drums up some more support among the Lords - Prime looked miserable out there.”

“E’s be stressin’ ‘bout this, yeah. Hates th’ executions, an’ wi’ it bein’ so many…” Ironhide lets his engine grumble. “Thank Pit ‘e put a stop ta Leg’s plottin’ early - ‘e wanted ta have all th’ servants smelted, too.”

“Very traditional.” Elita snorts. “He’s an idiot for thinking he could slip that past _this_ Prime. If he’d’ve pulled it off - Pit, you wouldn’t have even had a _chance_ to do anything. Optimus would have torn him apart _himself._ ”

“Pro’bly.” Ironhide chuckles. “Wouldn’ mind tha’ - Prime deserves a chance ta get some’a th’ stress out.”

She laughs. “He does. And, speaking of stress -” she gives him a grin, and a glance up and down - “it was a long ride from Crystal City. I don’t suppose you’d like a hand getting that paint off of you - give me a chance to steal some of Chromi’s polish?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They spend another joor chatting before hitting the washracks - and, by the time Ironhide’s managed to completely free himself of the last of the maccabe gilt, it’s early evening. He bids Elita - now freshly-polished and gleaming - a good cycle before wandering off in the vague direction of the East Wing.

He doesn’t head directly there, though - he swings through the Prime’sguard breakroom and tosses a pair of cubes in the warmer, first. Then, on a whim, a third - one of the sealed cubes that Optimus fuels from.

There aren’t many mechs about - most of them are on-duty, still, helping Ops and the priests transport the prisoners of House Twisted Glass back to Ops holding. A few mechs greet him as he passes them in the halls, but he greets them in return, and makes his own excuses, not wanting to wait longer before visiting with Mirage. 

The guard outside waves him in. “Ah - Bumblebee said that they would be expecting you, Commander. You can go in - he asked for them not to be disturbed more than necessary.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t bother knocking, but pings Bumblebee, just briefly, before pushing the door open.

“Hey, kid.” Ironhide eases through the door with a half-hearted grin. “How’s it -”

He’s met with a blur - a blue frame dashing across the room towards him - and has just enough time to register that it’s Mirage before backhanding the assailant into a wall. Instead, he reaches out and catches the smaller mech up against his chest as Mirage’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close.

“Slag, ‘raj, don’ do tha’ ta me.” But he obligingly lifts Mirage - the younger mech gives a soft sound of alarm, but lets himself be hauled upwards, and with a noble’s armor, he isn’t half the weight of some mechs Ironhide has carried. Ironhide doesn’t bother saying anything else until he’s seated on the couch, Mirage curled against his side, and Bumblebee squeezing in to fit beside them.

He lets a hand brush, soothingly, down Mirage’s arm - then repeats the gesture carefully when he feels the way the smaller mech’s frame is trembling, the desperate, needy edge to his field. They sit like that for a klik, then two - not saying anything, just gentle touch as Mirage’s field slowly begins to resolve itself. It’s only when Mirage shifts on his own - to press a little closer - that Ironhide speaks again.

“I’m sorry your sire’s a piece o’ slag, kid.”

Mirage goes still, at that, for just a moment - then, face half-hidden against Ironhide’s side, he gives a jerky nod, a soft and sparkbroken whimper. “He’s -” Mirage resets his vocalizer as it crackles, and there’s a note of agony when he speaks again. “I hate him.”

“Tha’s fair. I’d hate ‘im, too.” Ironhide gives a slow and considering vent. “Think I hate ‘im anyways, fer hurtin’ ye like this.”

“He _deserves_ -” Mirage’s voice trails off. “Everything. Talking to the Prime like that -”

“Talkin’ ta ye, like that.” Ironhide lets his hand move up Mirage’s back to rub a thumb, firm but careful, at the back of his neck, the pressure easing tension from his cables. “It’s okay, kid. Ye can hate ‘im fer hurtin’ ye, too.”

“I…” Mirage goes silent again, and his voice, when he speaks again, is whisper-soft, like a mech telling a secret. “I do. I - I hate him.”

There’s a long, long klik where that hangs in the air between them, and then something inside the younger mechs seems to - to come undone, like a wire strung too tight suddenly snapping. “I _love him._ ”

Pain surges across the smaller mech’s field, and it’s all Ironhide can do to hold him as he sobs - whole frame shaking with the force of it, optics dark with grief.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though he knows Mirage isn’t even close to hearing him. “It’s alright.”

It takes - more than a breem, almost two, until Mirage has cried himself out - until the sobs break down to broken jags interspersed with an exhausted gasp. Mirage’s whole frame still trembles - but there’s a dryness to it, a worn-thin tiredness that Ironhide has only ever seen on mechs stretched far too thin for much too long. It’s only when Mirage begins to still that he bothers speaking anything beyond the gentle reassurances.

“O’ course ye love ‘im, kid. ‘E’s yer sire. Plenty o’ young mechs love their slagger sires - ain’ no fault o’ yers.”

“I -” Mirage shifts, slightly, and Ironhide helps him adjust, just a little, so that Mirage can stare with wide, desperate, _lost_ optics up at him. “He’s a traitor.”

“An’ yer sire.”

“He - he called me worthless.”

“An’ ‘e’s yer sire.”

“He -” Mirage breaks off in another dry sob, and Ironhide lets out a soothing rumble.

“He hit ye, Mirage. An’ it weren’ always fer slag ‘e could say was yer fault.” Ironhide glances at Bumblebee - who gives him a wide-opticked look, but doesn’t say anything, or let his surprise show in his field. “Did ye love ‘im any less fer that?”

“He -” Mirage breaks off, plating flattening in confusion. “He was - he is my sire. He had the righ-”

Ironhide cuts him off with a rumble. “He didn’ have th’ right, kid. But ye love ‘im. An’ ye’ll grieve ‘im when ‘e’s gone.”

“I don’t - I don’t _want_ to.” Ironhide can’t quite keep back a chuckle at that - the desperation in MIrage’s voice, mixed with the simple impossibility of what he’s asking.

“We don’ always get wha’ we want, ‘raj.” The younger mech lets out a soft noise of protest, at that, and Ironhide hums a calming tone. “But tha’s alright. Ye’ll mourn, kid. Not him, not if ye don’ got anythin’ o’ him worth mournin’, but… ye deserve a sire tha’ was worth a damn. Deserved one. An’ it’s a fragged-up world we live in tha’ Shroud couldn’ even manage tha’.”

“I just… I wish he was dead already.” Mirage looks away from him. “It’d be easier if I didn’t - if I didn’t know he was downstairs, _hating me_ -”

“It’s an orn ‘til th’ execution, ‘raj.” It’s all the comfort he can offer the younger mech. “An orn, so that Optimus can intercede fer - fer th’ mechs as wanted it, an’ then… well, it’ll be over. Quick an’ withou’ hurtin’, jus’ like I promised ye.”

“An orn.” Mirage says it doubtfully - then, again, like it’s all that he’s got to cling to in the world. “An orn - and it’ll all be done. I can… I can manage that.”

“Ye won’ be alone.” Ironhide glances up at Bumblebee, who nods his agreement. “Me, or Bee, or one o’ th’ other mechs - we’ll keep somemech around so ye - so ye don’ have ta think on things, much.”

“Thank you.”

“Have ye fueled since thi’ mornin’, kid?” Ironhide glances up at Bumblebee, who shakes his helm, just slightly. “D’ye think ye can manage a cube?”

“I can -” Mirage shifts against him, and Ironhide gently supports him as he pushes himself upright, still curled against his side. He unsubspaces one of the still-warm cubes, offering it to Mirage, and lets his arm hang over the other mech’s shoulders - and Bumblebee’s, when the minibot scootches closer. “Thank you.”

“Got one fer ye, too, Bee. Both’a ye must be starvin’.” He offers Bumblebee the sealed cube, and the minibot gives him an appreciative - _tired_ grin as he takes it, checks the seal, and cracks the lid.

They sit in silence like that for a few kliks, fields mingling as Mirage’s slowly calms. It’s Mirage who breaks the idle quiet first. “Will you…”

He pauses, but Ironhide gently nudges him onward, and after another half-klik, he glances away. “Will you stay with me tonight? Please? I know you have other things to do, but -”

“Ain’ no trouble, kid.” Ironhide hums quietly, taking another sip of his fuel, but Mirage is still hesitant.

“I don’t want to… I don’ t want to wake up alone.”

“Then I won’ leave.” Ironhide pushes reassurance into his field. “I got th’ cycle off tomorrow -” it’s not true yet, but it will be once he comms Optimus, and that’s close enough - “an’ I ain’ got any plans, ‘side from maybe hangin’ out a’ th’ range. We can sleep in’, an’ maybe go out an’ do some pokin’ ‘round Iacon, after, ta keep yer mind offa things.”

“Am I allowed to?” Mirage perks, just a little, at the thought - and Ironhide doesn’t blame him; it’s been almost three orns since he’s left the palace.

“Sure.” Ironhide shoots Bumblebee, who doesn’t look nearly as confident, a grin. “Bee can come an’ keep an optic on us. It’ll be fun.”

“I’ve never been to Iacon.” Mirage takes a small sip of his energon, before setting the half-finished cube on the table. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYY! 300k words! Woo!
> 
> Mirage, as you might be able to tell, isn’t the first youngling that Ironhide has had to help cope with a shitty home life. It’s a hard thing, admitting that you hate your abuser. It can be an even harder one admitting that there’s a part of you that still wants to love them - especially when everyone around you is telling you that that’s wrong. Ironhide’s an old hand at giving young mechs a place to sort out how they feel without judgement - and at validating their feelings. It’s all just part of grieving the relationship Mirage should have had with his family.
> 
> And we get ‘Lita! Elita One, in this universe, I think has already been mentioned once or twice as the helm of Spec-Ops in Crystal City - she does basically the same thing Mirage does current-day, or Legend does in this story. She and Chromia are old friends, and she and Ironhide have worked together often enough for him to get along with her pretty well despite his notorious distaste for Ops - it helps that, unlike with Legend, she’s far enough away that he rarely has to deal with the shittier consequences of the work she does. She’s along for the ride because a couple of members of House Twisted Glass were living in Crystal City at the time, and it’s her operatives who captured them - for something as significant as attempted assassination (‘conspiracy against the Body of Primus’, which is Optimus’ liturgical title) the extra effort is put into really get everyone of note involved together.
> 
> So: the trial. You may have noticed that there’s no… trially bits? To the trial. That’s because, despite the terms, it’s really more of a sentencing. House Twisted Glass haven’t actually been arrested - or even charged with anything - they’ve been Vanished by Ops. And because of the severity of the crime, and the fact that they’re lords, they fall outside the conventional justice system. Basically, Ops already has proof that they’re guilty in sufficient quantity that the Prime has authorised execution - as the supreme ruler of Cybertron, that’s his right. _But,_ since they’re nobles, a commoner, or even a similarly-ranked noble like Legend, can’t pass judgement - the Prime has to. So you get these awkward political concessions - they’re all already dead mechs walking, the Prime and his advisors have agreed upon a sentence, but Optimus (acting as the Body of Primus, through the Priesthood) has to pronounce and carry out the sentence on each mech personally. Except!!! He can’t, because it’s beneath the dignity of a Prime to handle executions himself - so Ironhide, his personal guard, gets to get all dolled up in religious duds to act as the Prime’s executioner, and it’s all very complicated and requires lots of fancy baths and soaking in oil while mechs chant, and he low-key hates it because it’s a huge pain in the ass and he’s _personally seen_ Optimus tear Quintessons in half so really this is all well within his wheelhouse.
> 
> The ‘trial’ also gives mechs a chance to appeal to the Prime - _not,_ usually, for mercy, although a truly exceptional circumstance like an uninvolved conjunx or twin or a carrying partner might earn some clemency and commutation to a lesser sentence of spark extraction and imprisonment if they made the appeal at this stage. Instead, a bunch of mechs have appealed for intercession - basically, that Optimus, as Prime, pray for their sparks. It’s a very traditional request that’s considered a great comfort by many mechs - a personal forgiveness, if not a legal one. Some Primes, like Optimus, are liberal with it; others are reticent to grant it, it’s all up to the Prime. Other appeals can be more personal - a mech with a young child might ask the Prime to make sure they’re cared for, or can complete their education, for example.
> 
> It’s an intricate system, built piecemeal over centuries of shifting power imbalances between Primes and their Lords to allow mechs like Optimus to walk the narrow lines they need to as religious, social, and political leaders.
> 
> Next chapter (this is another one where I had to split things because it got well out of hand) - the executions! And after that - HOUND! I may feel really inspired and do the shopping trip as part of next chapter, but it will more probably be a one-shot elsewhere because it doesn’t fit the tone I’m maintaining for this bit - Mirage has never been out of his family’s estate for any real amount of time before, and he’s very excited to see a real city :D
> 
> Anyways! As you can probably tell from how long it took, this chapter beat the heck out of me, so let me know what you think! :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sadness and the explicit executions of... a bunch of guys. Cheerful shit to return next chapter. Summary in the end notes.

The baths are quieter, before the executions.

There’s a somber pall over the room, flowing in eddies across the tile with the steam. Even Ironhide can’t help but take the prayers a little more seriously with the weight of death on the room - and his soon-to-be victim’s kin mere meters away.

Mirage is silent, face set expressionlessly as he completes his own rituals - not the coiling gilt linework of a mech becoming the Prime’s hand, but the delicate crosswork lines of a Lord ascendant. He looks wholly distracted as the gilded glyphs are painted on, and Ironhide can’t blame him - there’s a grief to his field, faint but palpable even across the room, that makes it more than obvious where his attention is.

“Excuse me.”

The words are quiet, as the mech attending him gestures for him to raise his arm, but they seem to jar the blue mech, who jerks, slightly, and is only rescued from smudging the still-wet gilt by the quick hands of the priest. “Sorry!”

“It’s alright, youngling. You’re doing very well.” 

Ironhide doesn’t recognize the priest that is attending to Mirage - an elegant white-armored flightframe with long, swept wings and a graceful poise - but his voice, and his hands, are gentle as he tends the young noble. He’s older than the trio of mechs currently detailing Ironhide’s armor, or the ones attending Optimus, but that seems to reassure Mirage, somewhat, as he meets the mech’s optics.

“I…” Mirage pauses, and Ironhide doesn’t miss the glance he casts at Optimus - “Thank you, sir.”

He lifts his arm a little more, letting the priest get easier access to his hipplates, and follows carefully as the older mech guides to turn so the last of the gilt can be applied.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a long, delicate process, but eventually the last whorls of Ironhide’s own paint have been applied, the thin, twining filigrees covering his arms like gleaming golden gauntlets. Optimus’ own arms are less decorated, but every other inch of him dances with the gilded inscriptions, loose curves of Primal Vernacular arching down his helm and trailing across his back.

Mirage is less decorated, his own markings those of a Lord - evocative splashes of giltwork framed by sprays of dots that glint like mirrors in the bright lights of the baths.

He stands, uncertainly, by the edge of the room as his attendant begins to clean up, a lost look in his optics as if he doesn’t quite know what to do.

Optimus considers him thoughtfully for a moment before calling him over. “Mirage? Would you come here?”

“Of course, my Lord Prime.” As Mirage approaches, though, Optimus drops to one knee on the intricate tile, bringing them to optic level with one another, and he freezes. “My Prime?”

“Come -” Optimus gestures him forwards again, and Mirage inches forward, skittishly - until he’s close enough that Optimus can reach out and catch up his wrist, tugging him gently inward. “It’s alright, Mirage. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Mirage complies, a bewildered look in his optics, and doesn’t resist when Optimus tucks the towel over his shoulders and wraps his arms around the smaller frame. “I’m sorry, Mirage. I know none of this is fair to you - you’ve been very brave.”

“My Lord Prime -” Mirage starts - then his optics squeeze shut, and a shudder racks his frame. “I’m sorry -”

“It’s alright.” Optimus’ voice is gentle, his field a sea of calm. “It’s alright, Mirage. You’ve been very brave. I’m so proud of you - you’ve done so well.”

“Thank you.” But Mirage’s voice has a raspy, painful edge. “Thank you, my Lord, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m -”

He tugs away, just a little bit, and desperately wipes at his optics - Ironhide steps forward, holds out a mesh, which the younger mech snatches with a white-opticked look of spark-wrenching gratitude and buries his face in. Optimus watches, silent, for a klik as he composes himself - then reaches out, gently, again.

“Mirage…”

The noble’s face is still damp with half-dried tears when he looks up, and Optimus’ optics darken in grief. “ _I’m_ sorry, Mirage. I’m sorry that any of this…” He waves a hand, words escaping him, but Mirage nods his own wordless agreement. “I’m sorry that I have to ask you to be brave a little longer, Mirage.”

“I - I wanted this, my Lord Prime.” Mirage’s vocalizer reeds, but he resets it, and his next words are more solid. “I want to be here, it’s just -”

He shudders, and Optimus gives an understanding nod.

“This isn’t like the trial, Mirage. You don’t need to be silent - you can mourn them.” He catches Mirage’s chin gently, tilting it so Mirage can meet his optics. “No one will judge you. _I_ won’t judge you. Your grief is a sign of your caring spark, not any disloyalty.”

“Thank you, my Lord Prime.” Mirage drops his gaze in deference, but doesn’t pull away until Optimus pulls his own hand back.

“Ironhide cannot speak, once the executions begin, but… I am not so restricted.” There’s a pause - and then a ping, as a temporary comm code arrives in Ironhide’s inbox. He examines it, briefly, in surprise - it’s vanishingly rare for Optimus to designate a secondary code, and - 

Mirage is staring, optics huge, at the Prime, and it takes Ironhide only another instant to make the connection and open a three-way channel between them.

::Ye there, kid?::

::I - yes.:: Mirage sounds just a touch panicky at the sudden realization that he’s in comms contact with the Prime, and Ironhide lets just enough amusement flicker into his field to reassure him. The noble is hardly the first mech he’s trained who’s had a hard time speaking so directly to the Prime. ::Can you - my Lord -::

Optimus pings his own confirmation of the successful connection with a slight flicker of his own amusement. ::I’m here, Mirage.::

::Oh.::

Mirage goes silent again, following obediently along when Singularus enters to guide them back to the audience hall. It’s - emptier, this time, for a start - Elita and her mechs have already returned to Crystal city, their responsibilities too important to keep away for long, and only Legend sits in the quiet chamber.

He rises to his pedes, respectfully, as Optimus enters, waiting until Optimus is seated to settle back down, and Optimus gives him a courteous nod as he does, gesturing for Mirage to sit on his opposite side. The younger mech drops down, obediently, and Ironhide can feel his optics against his back as he steps forwards to take his place as executioner.

There are a few moments of idle quiet as Singularus once again leaves the room - then Mirage pings the comms channel uncertainly.

::What’s -:: His voice is reluctant, but he pushes on. ::What’s going to happen? If it’s alright for me to ask -::

::It’s fine, Mirage.:: Ironhide doesn’t miss the touch of fondness to Optimus’ voice, even if Mirage seems to. ::Singularus is… checking on a few things, so make sure everything goes smoothly. He’ll return in a klik, to read the invocations of Primus, and then -::

::I’ll take over.:: Ironhide steps in. ::An’ - it’ll be clean, mech, but… ain’ anyone gonna judge ye if ye’ve gotta leave. Bee’ll be hangin’ ‘round outside -::

::I’m going to stay.:: There’s the same iron determination behind the words as before, and Ironhide ducks his helm in acceptance. 

::Then ye’ll stay.::

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The invocations are, mercifully, short, when Singularus finally returns - reminders of Primus’ mercy and love, prayers for the sparks to be returned to him, a blessing on Ironhide’s hands, that they serve as his Prime’s will. Nothing Ironhide hasn’t heard before - made grave, however, by the task ahead of him.

He can’t see Optimus - or Mirage - from where he’s standing, his back to them. Instead, his optics are met by the steel-faced priests guarding the far doors - two identical tanks, still as statues, even their treads aligned in perfect symmetry.

It’s more than a breem before Singularus, at last, falls silent, turning to bow deeply, first to Ironhide, then to Optimus, as the tanks reach out and in a single gesture draw the doors wide.

They stand in silence as the first group of conspirators are brought out. Each is flanked by a pair of priests, hands shackled behind their backs, and each has been… tidied up, some - Phantasm’s limp is gone, and even the worst of Dichoric’s damages have been at least hidden under neat paint and more careful patchwork. Were they on a platform above a crowd, it would be impossible to tell they had been damaged at all - but here, without the blinding sun reflecting off their armor, it’s more apparent, though only just. There’s a disruptor around Shroud’s neck, and Dichoric’s, and Ironhide gives a soft but approving rumble as he sees them - there’s no point in letting dead mechs rant.

He glances up at Singularus as they’re brought to a stop before him, who gives him a small nod as he calls out the first name:

“Shroud, of House Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

The treasonous lord, first, as it traditional - Shroud resists, unwisely, but the priests are far too expert to allow him to pull free. They half-push and half-haul him out in front of Ironhide, who keeps his face impassive as he meets the noble’s terrified gaze. Shroud snarls something, but through the vocalizer it’s garbled, inaudible, and Ironhide doesn’t react as he raises the ax -

“Primus take yer spark.”

He brings it down in a single smooth sweep, just below the base of Shroud’s helm, and there’s the crack of splitting metal and then the lord’s helm clatters to the tilework beneath him, frame already beginning to dust out to a milky grey. There’s a moment of silence that echoes in the quiet of the hall - a moment that’s almost unnerving, compared to the cheers and whoops of a public execution - and then one of the priests, a big, burly hauler, grabs the limp frame and drags it aside.

As the other collects the helm, Ironhide evaluates the other mechs lined before him. Dichoric is next - the other mech who might put up a fight - then Pontil, then Anneal, then Chimera, with Phantasm last of all. 

“Dichoric, of House Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

Dichoric _fights_ , as he’s brought forwards, curses through the disruptor, tries to thrash against his restraints - both of his escorts are heavily-armored, military framed. He tries to lunge, snapping his dentae, as he’s shoved to his knees - one of them grabs him by the cuffs and hoists his arms up, forcing him forwards. 

“Primus take yer spark.”

The blow, again, is clean - and Dichoric goes still and silent in a single swept movement, helm clattering across the floor.

“Pontil, of House Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

The blue mech doesn’t resist like the others - he’s allowed to walk forwards of his own volition, but freezes as he meets Ironhide’s optics. One of the priests forces him downward, and he doesn’t try to fight, landing heavily on his knees and staring up at Ironhide with a wide-opticked and awful expression until the priest nudges him and his helm drops forwards like a cable’s been cut, hanging limp.

“Primus take yer spark.”

It’s a harder cut to make - with his helm slumped forwards, Ironhide has to angle the blow precisely to avoid gouging his chin, temper the strength of it carefully to avoid overstriking and sinking the axe into a leg - 

Ironhide is an expert, and the blow is clean.

He pauses, for a moment, as Anneal is brought forwards - examines the edge of the axe carefully and gestures to one of the priests, who brings him a grindstone. It doesn’t take much to re-keen the blade - a few careful sweeps to knock out any nicks - but the clean, smooth execution he’s performing is a delicate play between strength, accuracy, and a sharp, sharp edge.

Anneal, too, walks forwards on her own - shrugging off the priests as she drops to her knees and stares, defiant - not at him, but at the Prime. And then - her optics catch on something, and narrow, and Ironhide hears a soft and upset noise from behind himself -

“Go frag yourself!” She spits the words, tugging away from the priests as they try to stop her. 

There’s another soft cry, and Ironhide hears someone - Optimus? probably - shifting behind him, but Anneal laughs, a bitter, unkind sound.

“What, _now_ you feel bad?” she snarls, optics flaring. “ _Traitor. Kinslayer - least_ of our line, you worthless, twisted _thing -_ ”

The priest behind her tugs her back, voice snapping out a reprimand. “A dead mech does not speak to the Lord of House Twisted Glass in such a way.”

But she snarls again, gaze going cobalt-hard - “So _that’s_ why you did it, then. Sixth of our line - waiting to turn on your own kin - an _empty_ ready to consume your own _family_ for power -”

“Enough.” Optimus’ voice is a rumble. “Ironhide -”

He steps forwards, unshouldering the axe, and she grins viciously. “Watch, you pitspawned little coward. Remember this for the rest of your unworthy _life_ \- _remember that you did this -_ ”

“Primus take yer spark.” It’s the only benediction he offers as he swings the axe down.

There’s a moment of silence as her frame - slumps, sideways, going limp as her spark gutters, and the clatter of her helm against the ground echoes through the quiet hall. Ironhide looks up, meeting the optics of his next victim with a challenging glare - and he can’t help the ugly pleasure in his spark at the _fear_ he sees reflecting back at him.

Behind him, there’s a single, choked sob.

The whole scene hangs like that, for a moment, frozen, and then Singularus bows his helm. 

“Chimerae, of House Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

Chimerae doesn’t move - there’s a panicked flare to his armor that says that it’s a matter of _can’t_ , not _won’t_ , however, and the priests are more gentle as they tug him forwards. He tries to say - something, or maybe to scream - but his vocalizer fails him, clicking helplessly in alarm as his helm falls forwards -

“Primus take yer spark.”

And his frame slumps, uselessly like all the others, as the axe comes down.

“Phantasm, of House Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

The grey mech steps forwards - and drops to his knees - of his own accord, the priest at his back guiding, rather than forcing him down. Everything about his carriage screams submission - but as Ironhide raises the axe, opens his mouth to speak the benediction, he speaks. 

“Please, my Lord Prime - a - a request?”

It’s not traditional - they’re well past the point, for that - but, _knowing_ Optimus as he does, Ironhide pauses, turning slightly to look at the other mech. Optimus raises a hand, and Ironhide lets the axe settle as Optimus nods, stepping aside so that they can address each other. “I will hear it.”

“Don’t - don’t -” Phantasm hesitates, plating pressing flush against his frame as he shifts, just slightly, to look up at Optimus. His voice, when he finds his words, is very quiet. “I’m so sorry, Mirage. My lord - please don’t make him _watch_ -”

Mirage makes a noise of wordless protest at that, and Optimus reaches out, lays a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Mirage’s whole face is crumpled in grief, and there’s no hiding the tears tracking down his cheeks.

“It was not my intention, Phantasm.” Optimus keeps his voice solemn, face impassive, but Ironhide’s known him long enough to read how much Mirage’s upset is affecting him easily. “He requested to be allowed to bear witness, here. I won’t ask of him otherwise.”

It takes Phantasm a moment for the obvious implication to sink in - but once it does, his optics widen in relief, whole frame sagging with it. “Please, Mirage. I don’t want you to -” he goes silent for just a moment, and looks away. “I don’t want it to be my face you see.” 

There’s a look of awful hesitation on Mirage’s face, and then, unable to speak, he nods. Optimus - says something, he must, over comms, because Mirage gives another shaky nod and steps forward to bury his helm in the larger mech’s side.

Optimus gives a nod, and Ironhide steps forwards again, axe ready, and this time, Phantasm’s gaze is hard and set with determination - as he lowers his helm, he can see where the grey mech’s cables are tensed along his throat, readying for the blow.

“Go ta Primus, kid.” It’s all he can offer - a prayer from another mech, and not the sparkless invocation of the Hand of the Prime - and Ironhide swings the axe down - 

And behind him, there’s just enough time to hear Mirage’s scream - “ _I love you!_ ” - as the blow lands.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s very quiet in the hall as Phantasm’s helm clatters to the floor - silent, except for the echoes and the soft sound of Mirage sobbing behind him. It takes Ironhide a minute to raise the axe, straightening from the blow as the priests tug the greying frame away.

There’s a lull, as the next group of conspirators are brought in - eight mechs, rather than six, this time, all lesser members of the conspiracy, with two more groups of eight beyond them. Ironhide hardly pays them any attention, however, his whole focus on Mirage and Optimus, behind him. He can’t - won’t - disrespect proceedings so much as to reopen his commline, but it’s impossible to drag his attention elsewhere with Mirage’s whimpers drowning out his thoughts - so it’s a mercy when Optimus, finally, speaks up.

“Mirage.”

There’s a moment’s pause - Singularus doesn’t stop his reading, obviously instructed to continue, and Ironhide continues his own methodical steps in the dance - before Mirage replies, voice low. “Yes, my Lord Prime?”

“You said you would swear an oath to me.” Optimus pauses, shifting behind Ironhide.

“Yes, my Lord. I am yours.”

“Let’s do it now, Mirage.” He pauses as Ironhide’s axe strikes again, and Umbra’s helm clatters to the floor and rolls away. Mirage is silent for a long moment, and Optimus tries again as the priests drag the greying frame aside “Look at me.”

It’s enough for Mirage to tear his gaze off of the scene as Singularus calls out again, apparently - “Scintilla, of the House of Twisted Glass - guilty of treason, and conspiracy against the Body of Primus.” 

“My Lord Prime.”

“Don’t look at that, Mirage. Look at me. You know the wordings - swear yourself to me. I want them to see how I reward loyalty.” Optimus shifts again, and there’s the sound of Mirage rising to his pedes - and, no doubt, turning to kneel.

“My Lord Prime -” There’s a thud as Scintilla’s helm is separated from her frame, and he staggers on the words - “My Lord Prime, I present myself to you as heir to House Twisted Glass - first of my Sire’s line, Mirage - in hopes that you will look upon me, and in judgement, find me worthy of my name -”

He pauses, and there’s a deliberate moment before Optimus speaks. “I do.”

“I would petition you, then, in Primus’ name, for the rights and titles that are my birthright - Lord of Tower Twisted Glass and her estates, Seventh Chair of the High Noble Houses, by Your will.”

Another moment. “By my right as Prime, in Primus’ name, they are yours.”

“My Lord Prime.” A pause, as Mirage completes - probably some kind of ritualistic genefluction, though Ironhide, bringing the axe down again, doesn’t have any idea of which one - “And - if I, as Lord of Twisted Glass, might bring before you a petition?”

“You may,” Optimus allows.

“If I might ask my Prime for his guidance, as my -” there’s a beat, as Mirage’s vocalizer trips on the words - “As my Sire has died, and left me his only - only worthy heir, before he could complete my tutelage -”

“You will have it, Mirage of House Twisted Glass.” Optimus’ voice is patient, coaxing. “I offer you a place, as a vassal of the Primacy - to be repaid for your loyalty with tutelage worthy of your stature, and my support as you find your place within the court.”

“I accept it, and your grace, my Lord Prime.” There’s another shift, and he pushes onwards. “You have my oath, my Prime.”

“Thank you, Mirage.” There’s a heavy vent from behind Ironhide, and then a thump - “Please, come here -”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When, joors later, his work is finally done, Ironhide lowers the axe to the floor - maintaining his poise as the last ruined frame is hauled away by the priests, then offering the weapon to a heavily-built racer who kneels to accept it. It’s only then that he can turn, at last, and see -

Mirage is curled against Optimus’ side, entirely, whole frame stiff except for a tremor that trails across his back. Optimus is kneeling, one arm wrapped, protectively, across his back, the other hiding his face. His focus is entirely on the smaller frame in his arms - he only looks up when Ironhide approaches, murmuring something into his audial.

Ironhide doesn’t get too close. ::How’s he doin’?:: He pings Optimus after a moment.

::Not well. Not badly. We… didn’t watch much after Phantasm.:: Optimus’ tone is almost apologetic, but Ironhide nods. 

::I heard. Good.:: He pauses, glancing up at Legend and switching channels. ::Ye can go, mech.::

::You -:: Legend looks, for a moment, as if he’s ready to argue - then his gaze drops, just a little, to the energons spattered across Ironhide’s plating, and changes his mind. He strides out of the room without another word.

Optimus pings him back across the still-open channel. ::I think he wants you, ‘Hide. He’s not saying anything.::

::Shell-shock, probably.:: Ironhide agrees - then glances down at his plating. ::Might be better if I’d -::

::He isn’t going to care, I don’t think.::

There’s a finality to the way he says it that Ironhide doesn’t bother to argue with - he drops to his knees beside the pair, carefully reaching out a hand to brush across Mirage’s shoulder. “Kid?” It’s only once his fingers graze the blue mech’s plating that he notices the way his field is drawn - close, much too close, and tight as a coiled spring.

“Slag, kid.” Mirage doesn’t flinch away from him, so Ironhide edges closer, until his own field overlaps Mirages, and pushes comfort against the younger mech.

It really _does_ feel like shell-shock - and that, at least, is something he’s dealt with before. Optimus’ field - stronger, kinder, _deeper_ in that unfathomable way all Matrix-touched sparks are - wraps around him, echoing his brushes as he carefully teases Mirage’s field back out, catching an edge and loosening it as a dozen others pull away. It’s a slow, delicate task, but it works, after a bit, Mirage’s field broadening enough to be at least _responsive_ to the comfort he offers.

It’s still shot through with distress and panic, but that’s not so easy to deal with as the initial strain. Ironhide nudges his shoulder again, just lightly enough that he can feel it. “‘Raj? Kid?”

Mirage lets out a hoarse, gasping sob, and there’s a faint clatter as all his vents reset at once, whirring up to speed as heat flushes from his frame.

“‘Raj, kid, can I pick ye up?” He tries, again, when Mirage doesn’t try to talk. He stays silent, but there’s a fake, juttery nod that’s good enough - Ironhide reaches out, one hand taking Mirage by the shoulder, the other there to steady him as he looks up with wide, bright optics -

And once again buries himself in Ironhide’s chest.

Ironhide, for his part, lets his arms wrap around the smaller frame, one hand rising to cradle his helm, and lets his engine rumble soothingly. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry. I know it was awful. It’s over, now.”

Mirage, still-voiceless, nods into his chest.

“Ye wanna jus’ -” He gestures at one of the priests, who seems to catch his intentions, and a klik later two of the white-plated mechs are dragging over a heavy chair. “There we go. Let’s jus’ - jus’ sit a klik, an’ catch ourselves.”

It takes a little maneuvering to get on his pedes and into the seat without letting Mirage go - the mech is significantly smaller than him, but no sparkling - but eventually, he’s got it, Mirage cradled on his lap, pressed against his chestplate, quiet as he strokes his shoulder.

Optimus drags his own chair over, after a klik, placing it right next to him where Mirage can see - he reaches over, takes the smaller mech’s hand in his own and rubs a thumb in careful circles across the back of it. 

They sit like that for another few kliks, as the priests finish their work and depart quietly - until only Singularus remains, pointedly not paying attention to them. Finally, Mirage says… something, but it’s muffled against Ironhide’s plating, and he has to gently nudge the smaller mech to look up.

“Wha’ was tha’, kid?”

“I’m sorry.” The words are quiet still, but more understandable, at least. “Sir. I’m sorry -”

He trails off, vents whirring a little faster with stress, and Ironhide rumbles lightly beneath him. “Kid -”

It’s Optimus, however, who cuts him off with a glance, voice soft. “Mirage… You’ve done so incredibly well.” Mirage actually _looks_ at him, at that, optics widening. “I’m so proud of you.”

There’s a quiet sound of disbelief, and he pushes onward. “This was - the hardest thing anymech could have asked of you, Mirage. But you did it - you were so strong…”

“An’ it’s done,” Ironhide adds cautiously.

“It’s done,” Mirage repeats back, softly, with a nod. “Thank… thank you. It’s just…”

“Hard,” he offers, with a nod. “It’s gonna be, fer a while. It’ll get easier, wi’ time.”

“I -” Mirage lets out a bitter-sounding laugh, at that. “I hope so.”

He goes quiet, again, and Ironhide and Optimus allow him the silence, waiting for him to be able to compose himself - but even so, it’s hard to hear when Mirage murmurs his brother’s name.

“Phantasm?” Ironhide prompts gently. “Wha’ ‘bout ‘im?”

“He was - the only one of them who ever really cared about me.” Mirage’s voice wavers as he says the words. “He - he’s the reason I got away, when sire attacked me. He grabbed his arm long enough that I could get away.”

“He loved you.” Optimus offers. “Loved you enough that he didn’t want to hurt you. He seemed kind.”

“And he got killed because I - because I told.” Mirage is silent for a moment. “He was a traitor.”

He says it like a statement, but the question just under the surface is unmistakable - and there’s no good answer, not that Ironhide can give him. “He was.” he offers, instead. “But he sounds like a good mech, an’ I’m sorry he got caught up in yer sire’s business.”

“I just…” Mirage trails off wordlessly, burying his face back in Ironhide’s side.

“He had a good spark, Mirage.” It’s Optimus who speaks, voice painstakingly delicate, and Mirage’s field flickers with surprise. “Primus knows all mechs by their sparks. He will know that he was a good brother, and judge him by it.”

“I - thank you, my Lord Prime.” Mirage bows his helm - but there’s a faint tremor to his field, a question unasked, and Ironhide nudges him on.

“Ye have a question fer Optimus, kid?” Mirage nods, hesitant, and Ironhide smiles gently. “Ask ‘im. Ain’ no one here’s gonna blame ye fer askin’ - ye’ve had a rough enough cycle already.”

Mirage glances up, nervously, for confirmation, but Optimus only nods his agreement.

“My brother had… a ring. He kept it with him always - it wasn’t anything elaborate, just a little band with a jet in it -” he gestures with his fingers, a size. “I was - could I have it? To remember him by?”

Optimus pauses, for a moment, optics dimming - confirming, Ironhide assumes, that it’s somewhere in their inventory of confiscated possessions. Most of the objects - except the weapons - will make their way back to House Twisted Glass eventually, of course, but Optimus nods anyways a moment later.

“Of course, Mirage. I’m glad that you’ll have… something good, to remember your family by.”

“Thank you, my… my Lord Prime.”

Singularus’ approach is quiet - he hangs back, giving them a little space, until Optimus looks up and acknowledges him with a nod. 

At that, he steps forwards a little, field smooth as glass as he approaches. Ironhide shifts, just a little, so Mirage can see him better.

“Would you like to stay here a while, Mirage?” Singularus’ voice is gentle, coaxing, as he offers the noble a hand. “Take a little while to… reflect, and talk about anything you need to?”

It’s a kindness - the priesthood are experts in exactly that, and Ironhide would be more than happy to leave them to their work, except that Mirage flinches back, glancing over at the door to the execution chamber, and Ironhide can almost _taste_ the way his field sours in rejection.

He reaches out, lets his arm settle over Mirage’s shoulders and draw him closer to his side. “Th’ kid’ll go with me an’ Prime, Sing’.” He glances at Optimus, who nods, approvingly. “We’ll take care o’ him.”

Singularus gives Mirage, who has a look of deep relief on his face as he pushes closer, a glance, then nods. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back bitches!
> 
> HO-LEE SHIT this chapter. It sucked to write. It may very well have sucked to read. I didn't like writing it. I want to write happy shit again. You may have been able to infer some or all of that by the fact that it took me legit a week to write, and is still much shorter than any other chapter. But it's done.
> 
> Quick summary for people who don't want to read it, b/c I know a couple of you were saying - 
> 
> Ironhide, Mirage, and Optimus get detailed together before the execution, with Mirage getting dolled up for his assumption of Shroud's Lordship immediately after. Optimus and Mirage have a moment in the hall, and Optimus comforts Mirage as the six family members from last chapter get executed. Shroud and Dichoric, the fighters from last chapter, are gagged; Pontil goes quietly, and Anneal, the surly femme, notices that Mirage is going to be made lord and snaps out at him about how she hopes he remembers her face for the rest of his life in his nightmares before she gets her helm chopped off. Chimerae goes quick, but Phantasm - the quiet one from last time - is affected by Anneal's outburst and begs Optimus for the favor of not making Mirage watch his execution, not realizing that this was Mirage's choice and thinking Optimus is requiring it as a punishment or means of reinforcing his loyalty. Optimus lets the two of them talk, and Mirage agrees not to watch, curling up with Optimus as it happens.
> 
> The next group of prisoners are brought in, and Ironhide can't see, but Mirage is visibly upset, so rather than continue watching, Optimus distracts him by demanding his oath right then, buying them time as Ironhide works through that group. Fade to black on the executions there, rejoin after - Mirage is shellshocked and near catatonic in Optimus' arms. Ironhide tells Legend to fuck off, which he does, and goes to them, and the pair calm Mirage until he can react again as the last bodies are cleared away. Mirage, after a bit, explains that Phantasm was the one member of his family who really protected him, and asks for his ring, which Optimus arranges for him to recieve. Singularus, the priest, offers to talk to Mirage, but Ironhide informs him that he and Optimus will be handling it and they depart.
> 
> Oh man you guys have no idea how upsetting this chapter was to write. Just, very stressful. Not all of it, mostly the bits with Phantasm... but I spent like three days working on that section. I haven't revised shit. I've half-assed notable portions of it. I hope you enjoy it anyways, and I'm going to go write like 8000 words of Hound/Mirage fluff because that's all I really want to do at the moment.
> 
> I would love to hear your opinions on this, with that said (at some point I will come back and redo everything, but not soon lol). Thanks for bearing with while I slogged through this :D and don't worry 'bout me, I'm resilient as hek.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place about a centivorn, maybe two, after the last one :D TIMEJUMP HO - we're gonna start skipping forwards a bit as we work our way towards the main plot again :D And this chapter has no warns - we're back into soft fun stuff for the moment :D

::It was nothing too major, I hope?::

::Eh, by the time I got there, Singularus had it all well in hand.:: Ironhide grins as he wanders the streets of Iacon, ambling back from the temple. ::Th’ priests’re pretty good at takin’ care o’ th’ odd assassin, Prime - ain’ like this’d be th’ first time tha’ someone tried ta sabotage th’ temples.::

::I’m just relieved someone noticed before any real damage could be done.:: Optimus sounds it, some of the tension winding its way out of his voice. ::Were you planning to head back to the palace, then?::

::Nah. Was thinkin’ I might swing by an’ visit ‘raj while I’m down ‘ere - Leg’s been after me ta keep a closer optic on ‘im, might get th’ mech ta shut up fer half a breem.::

Optimus’ voice tints with fondness. ::Of course, ‘Hide.:: There’s a teasing lilt to it, too. ::Not like you’d ever check in on him, otherwise. What a trial.::

There’s no good defense to that, so Ironhide chuffs good-naturedly. ::Yeah, yeah, my life as yer servant’s one o’ pain an’ sufferin’ an’ all tha’ slag. I should be back a’ th’ palace by t’night - I’ll comm if somethin’ holds me up.::

::I’ll set squadrons in the streets if you don’t return.:: Optimus lets his voice drop into a dramatic register. ::We’ll leave no path unwalked, no sewer untrod - _we will find you, Ironhide, I promise_ -::

Ironhide snorts. ::Nah, mech. Ye kin let me die. If it comes t’ that, or lettin’ th’ newlings lord it over me, I think I’ll make my peace wi’ Primus.::

::Fair enough.:: Optimus sends him a last, fond ping as he drops out of the commlink.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It doesn’t take too long for Ironhide to make his way over to Tower Twisted Glass - the elegant estate isn’t far from the Iaconi border. It’s a pleasant drive - the nobility keep the roads clean and flat, trimmed with sweeping crystal growths and broad awnings that provide protection from the afternoon sun.

“Commander Ironhide!” The guards at the gate snap to attention as he draws near - younger mechs, both of them. Regardless of any reservations Legend has about Mirage, Ironhide isn’t particularly worried - it’s a safe enough posting for a bunch of trainees to get some experience working around a noble estate. “How can we be of service today, sir? Are you here on business, or should we announce you?”

Ironhide considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Eh, I’ll take a poke around ‘fore I go huntin’ ‘Raj up. How’ve things been, here? All quiet?”

“Very quiet.” The guard grins. “No palace excitement around here.”

“Then th’ two o’ ye are lucky fraggers.” Ironhide snorts. “I’m up ta my helm in Senators a’ th’ moment, an’ I’ll swap wi’ either o ye as wants th’ posting. Ye kin have th’ temples, too, if ye please - no doubt ye’ll hear ‘bout _that_ next time yer a’ th’ palace, if we manage ta keep it outta th’ flimsies -”

They laugh as he brushes by, clapping one of them on the shoulder as he goes. 

His search of the Tower is cursory - has to be, it’s far too large an estate for one mech to examine in detail. He meanders through the art gallery - checking, supposedly, that nothing too big and notable has been covertly pawned to raise funds for potentially treasonout dealings - past the weapons gallery - the only particularly notable weapon, a powerful auxiliary fusion cannon, is exactly where it should be - and pauses at a terminal to check that the spyware Ops has uploaded to the House’s servers seems intact before pinging Legend a brief notification that Mirage has, once again, passed an inspection.

He sends a quick comm to the guards - one of them, a junior mech named Trident, pings back only a moment later with Mirage’s current location in the gardens, and Ironhide pings back a brief thank-you before meandering in that direction. He nods a greeting to the mech in question as he enters the gardens, a wide, open courtyard ringed by a high, ornately-decorated wall.

The crystals are, as ever, meticulously-tended, the work of a hand that Ironhide has never seen. Hound’s preferences, apparently, tend towards the wild - Ironhide doesn’t consider himself a particular optic for crystals, but he can appreciate the erratic forms of new growth allowed to run free, sending unpredictable cascades of light and color scattering across the paths. It’s easy to see the former structure of the gardens, a more classic, maintained approach - but within a centivorn or two, the new growth will have reclaimed the pruned crystal beneath it entirely.

Already, smaller crystals have begun to encroach - there’s splashes of bright red crocoite along the edges of the path, spraying in slender, delicate clusters from the metal tile. Cinoclase, deep blue and glinting, trails up an elegant wall of cut and polished pyrite running almost a hundred feet along the Tower’s wall, broken by a long, thin fountain of clear solvent that cascades musically down it.

Ironhide winds his way deeper into the garden, the crystals getting larger - huge, columnar growths of quartz, carefully rutilated with thin, bronze-colored striations, or made iridescent with rainbow inclusions of oil and gas, mingled between towering, crystal-clear baryte cubes two or even three times taller than him. 

It’s as he rounds a wall of nearly-translucent fluorite, the banded crystals cascading from green to blue to a pale, saturated violet, that he hears the voices - and goes still.

“I want to - you know I do.” Mirage’s voice is reluctant, worried, and Ironhide creeps forwards as silently as he can, stifling even his fans as he moves around the crystal growths. He catches sight of the noble and freezes, apparently unnoticed - Mirage is sitting on a bench, curled fondly against a green-framed mech that Ironhide recognizes from stills as Hound himself. “But…”

“We could just - _leave._ ” The green mech waves a hand in the air. “Just - you have money, we could take things with us from the tower, just head out one night and _go_.”

“We - I couldn’t, Hound. I’m sorry.” There’s a note of desperate _want_ in Mirage’s voice, though - a spark-deep _regret_ when he shakes his helm - and Ironhide, curious, settles against the fluorite to listen. “I’m sworn to Optimus - Primus, Hound, everyone else in the family is _dead_ for betraying him. If I run - they’ll _never_ believe that I mean no harm. We’d be hunted for the rest of our lives, and - and I swore an oath.”

“Frag them.” There’s a hiss of anger to the words, but it’s obviously not directed at Mirage. “I mean - frag them _all_ , Mirage. Your sire’s games -”

He hesitates for a moment, but pushes on, steeling himself. “Your sire’s games almost cost me you once, Mirage. I just - I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” Mirage leans into the other mech’s side, letting his hand rest on Hound’s knee gently. “We - things will change, sooner or later, and there’s nothing I can do about that, but… I won’t let them pull us apart. I love you, Hound, I just -”

He looks away, a faint tremble to his shoulders, and Hound vents, heavily.

“It’s not right, that he gets to play with you like this. You didn’t do anything _wrong_ , Mirage -”

“I hid _treason_ , Hound!” Mirage’s voice pitches upwards in shock. “I - they could have killed me for that, and no one would have reset an optic over it. They could have - by every right they could have killed _you_ , could have killed _every single servant here_ , and no one would have _cared!_ ”

“You saved his _spark,_ Mirage!” There’s an indignation to the green mech’s tone that has him growing on Ironhide, a righteous anger that he can’t help but be fond of. “Why the slag should he get to tell you what to do with yours?”

“He’s the Prime.” Mirage says it like it’s all the answer there can be. “He’s - Primus, Hound, I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

That has the gardener deflating, a little. “So - what, then? We spend the rest of our lives hiding?”

“Maybe.” Mirage’s optics shutter, briefly, as if from pain. “Maybe. I don’t - I don’t _know,_ Hound. I - you know if I thought I could, I would go with you in a sparkbeat, leave all of this - I wouldn’t need any of it, if I could have you. But the world isn’t like that.”

“Maybe if we give it time, he’ll forget.” Hound offers, though he doesn’t sound at all convinced. “Just - I’ve known lords like that before, who have their little dalliances and then just forget -”

Mirage makes a wordless, horrified noise of protest, and Hound shakes his helm desperately. “Not you! Primus, never you - but maybe he’ll - I don’t know. Get what he wants out of you and leave you alone.”

“He might.” Mirage vents heavily. “I doubt it. My bond - he could secure an alliance with _any_ of the Houses, with the Lord of a High House to bargain with. Or - he has my oath. Use me to make sure that someone he needs stays loyal.”

“So you save his life and he kills your family, forces you to serve him, and trades you off for political favors?” The green mech’s voice rises, frustration peaking at it - “You’re not some prize to be won!”

Mirage lets out a soft bark of laughter at that.

“Of course I’m not.” Mirage’s voice turns fond, and there’s only a touch of bitterness, at the very edges. “You’ve already won me, Hound. I’m yours. Even if…” He glances away, and Ironhide can see his fingers, woven together with the servant’s, squeeze, just a little. “Even if we can’t be together. You have everything of me that matters, everything - everything I can give you.”

“I -” The green mech lets his engine rumble, glancing away. “Primus. I know I’m being selfish, but…”

He trails off, and Ironhide takes that as his cue to amble out from between the crystals with a shrug. “I dunno. I thought ye were bein’ pretty reasonable ‘bout things, myself, but I ain’ a lord.”

There’s a klik - an _intensely gratifying_ klik - where they both stare at him, mute, frozen, and wide-opticked. Then Mirage lets out a reedy whine as his vocalizer cuts out entirely - and Hound scrambles to his pedes. To his credit, he’s bold - Ironhide watches in amusement as he places himself between him and Mirage, plating flared, arms wide in a grappler’s stance, helm dropped low -

It would be intimidating if Hound weren’t _desperately_ outclassed.

Ironhide steps forwards, not trying in particular to loom, and sees him waver - but it’s Mirage who reaches out, grabbing his wrist, voice desperate and frightened in a way that makes Ironhide’s tanks curdle to hear it as he whispers, “Hound - Hound, please, that’s Ironhide - he works for the _Prime_ -”

 _That_ makes Hound waver, obviously torn between shielding Mirage and submitting to an authority that he knows he can’t defy, but Ironhide raises his hands in a gesture of peace as he walks around them, Hound twisting to track him as he moves. “I ain’ gonna hurt ye, kid. Sit down.”

Hound wavers for another klik, and sits.

Ironhide approaches slowly, keeping his hands obvious - Mirage has relaxed, just slightly, but Ironhide can hear the whir of his fans, and see the frightened looks he’s casting at Hound - who, himself, looks terrified behind the bluster, optics almost white with alarm.

“I ain’ gonna hurt ye, either of ye. Primus, mechs. Relax.”

“I -” Mirage staggers on the words, and his vents click up a notch. “We - we weren’t -”

“Ye weren’ doin’ anythin’ wrong, kid.” Ironhide gives Hound one last glance before he settles on the ground beside Mirage, dropping into an army crouch that only makes his hip joints ache a little. “Ain’ a crime ta be talkin’ ta a friend in th’ gardens.”

Mirage sags a little. “How much did you hear?”

“Plenty,” he offers with a shrug, and Hound shifts, anxiously, beside him. “I ain’ gonna haul ye in fer sedition fer wantin' th’ mech ye love ta be happy, green. Yer Hound, then?”

“I am,” the green mech offers after a moment. “I - I’m sorry, sir - we were just talking -”

“Mech. Honest. I know.”

Mirage hesitates - reaches out, carefully, and Ironhide doesn’t pull away when he rests a hand on his wrist. “I am loyal to my Prime’s wishes, Commander Ironhide.”

“I know ye are, ‘raj.” Ironhide keeps his voice gentle, letting his own hand rest over Mirage’s. “I’m gonna tell Optimus ‘bout this - ye know that. He ain’ gonna hurt ye.”

“I…” Mirage pauses, and Ironhide can feel the tension in his field. “I know. I would never ask you to hide something from the Prime, sir.”

“Yer a smarter mech than some, kid.” He rises to his pedes, stretching as his knees. “Jus’ got done checkin’ th’ Tower - ye’ve passed again, ‘raj. I was gonna hang ‘round a bit, but if ye’d rather I clear off, I ain’ gonna be offended. Give ye a chance ta wind down?”

Mirage glances at Hound, who still looks deeply unnerved, and nods. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, sir?”

“‘Course.” He pauses, considering. “An’ - why don’ ye bring ‘im wi’ ye th’ next time ye visit Iacon.” He keeps his tone causal, but it’s obvious that Mirage takes it for the instruction it is. “Th’ two o’ ye can poke ‘round th’ gardens or somethin.”

“Yes, sir.” Mirage bows his helm, voice quiet. “I understand.”

The two mechs are silent as Ironhide turns to leave, but as he glances back, he sees the way Mirage’s fingers twine, trembling, with Hound’s.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s sedition - at the _least_.” Legend’s face is stern, as Ironhide finishes his recounting. “Probably not enough to rise to the level of treason, but - well, I’ll have my mechs go through his comunications with a loup, my Lord Prime. If he’s been conspiring -”

“Fragger, th’ slaggin’ _gardener_ hasn’ been conspirin’ against th’ _Primacy -_ ” Ironhide starts, but Optimus raises a hand and he subsides.

“You may look into his communications so long as you do it _quietly,_ Legend.” Optimus shoots Ironhide a challenging glance, and he ducks his helm in submission, which gets a pleased look from Legend that makes him want to throttle the other mech. “I don’t want him - or _Mirage_ \- finding out you were investigating them.”

“Don’t want - but you’ll be having him brought into custody, surely?” Legend’s smugness sours with realization, and his optics flare. “My Lord Prime - even if it doesn’t rise to the level of execution, you can’t tell me you intend to simply - simply _tolerate_ sedition, from a House that’s already proven itself inclined to treason!”

“That House is dead, Legend.” There’s a note of warning in the words. “Mirage has proven himself loyal - has proven that loyalty in energon. And I will not cause him more suffering just because he has a friend who loves him.”

“More than a friend,” Ironhide snorts. “They were talkin’ bout bondin’, even if they didn’ think it could happen - an’ mech, they sounded _serious._ ”

“And that’s it’s own brand of problem.” Legend vents heavily, and raises a hand to rub at his sensor horns as if anticipating a processor ache. “Young love - Primus. It turns mechs into _idiots_. What do you intend to do when they eventually give up on duty and _bond_ , my Lord Prime?”

“I don’t know - I’ve been letting Mien handle sending out congratulations, and things like that. Do you think it would be more appropriate to make the arrangements myself, since -”

Ironhide, at least, picks up the teasing in his tone. Legend obviously doesn’t - his field flushes with shock for one moment before he managed to get it under control, optics widening.

“My Lord Prime -” There’s a curl of frustration to the way he says the words. “This risks going beyond some kind of - of _youthful dalliance._ Even if you want to be… _unreasonably permissive_ with the mech -”

He pauses, and vents for a moment, optics dimming. When he speaks again, the words are obviously chosen with care.

“My mechs could make… _arrangements._ A comfortable position at one of the remote estates, perhaps further training - I’ve seen the mech’s educational records, he has potential as head gardener for one of the palaces, even, if he applies himself. They’re young - give it a few decavorn and this childish impropriety will be all but forgotten.”

“And we’ll have taken another person Mirage loves away from him.”

“And you’ll have _made his life immeasurably easier_ , my Lord Prime.” Legend spreads his hands in a gesture of contrition. “Saved him from an undue temptation. Spared both of them the sparkbreak of ending it themselves. He’ll know his little friend is happy, and as the passion fades, that will be enough.”

It’s a good suggestion, and Ironhide is about to open his mouth to begrudgingly support it when Optimus speaks, instead.

“And if I don’t have any objections to their bonding?”

Ironhide can hear the audible click his mouth makes when he snaps his jaw shut. Legend blanches with surprise.

“That would be - ridiculous, my Lord Prime.” He pauses, obviously phrasing and rephrasing his argument until it meets a minimum threshold of respectfulness before continuing. “My Lord Prime - Mirage has a _duty_ to you. _Wasting_ his bonding on a - on a _commoner_ -”

“How is it a waste?” Optimus pushes, and there’s an edge, just a thin edge, of warning, to the question. “They love each other.”

“Love is for holodramas and commoners! Nobles bond for power - Mirage is sworn to bond for _your_ power.” Legend meets Optimus’ optics with a look that says that this is an argument he’s not going to back down from easily. “Giving his spark to a gardener does nothing but weaken his standing - and _yours_. You _can’t_ just - just _give away_ the sort of influence you’re discussing here, my Lord Prime!”

Ironhide lets out a grumble at that, but Optimus ignores him. “What sort of influence are we talking about, Legend?”

“He’s the Lord of his House. Twisted Glass - they’ve been a powerful force for millennia, they’re one of the High Houses - and _you directly influence their Lord._ ” Legend pauses, and when it’s obvious that whatever he’s trying to explain is going over his audience’s helms, he vents heavily. “You could secure a bonding contract with - with _any other house_ , my Prime. Lock down one of the Lesser Houses forever - even if they hate your politics, they would support you for the sheer _status_ such a bonding would afford. Or seal the loyalty of one of the High Houses - with one of their own bonded into House Twisted Glass, you’d finally have a base for some real faction-building -” 

“Or I could make him hate me. Turn him into the traitor that you would have me treat him as -”

“If he knows his duty, he will understand.” Legend’s optics narrow fiercely. “If not, then he’s no better than a traitor -”

“So what, then, Legend!” Optimus vents with frustration. “Should I - kill his family, press him into my service, and then dog him for the rest of his life, stealing away whatever little bits of happiness he finds? He’s barely more than a youngling -”

“He’s a Lord! He knew what he was doing, when he swore himself to you, my Prime!” Legend’s voice rises, stress teeking in his field. “Better than either of you, apparently! You -” He leans forwards, jabs a finger at Ironhide,” - you heard him - he knew what he was offering!”

“I do. An’ it’s slag, mech.” Ironhide shrugs. “I may live with ye nobles, but - pit, mech, I’m jus’ as common as th’ Prime, an’ maybe tha’s why I don’ get this slag, but… it’s a fraggin’ cold thing, askin’ a kid ta give ‘is spark fer politics.”

“I ask mechs for their sparks _every day._ ” And Legend’s voice is brutally, brutally ugly as he snarls the words. “I do, you do, the Prime does, the Lord Protector does - young mechs and femmes _live and die_ by the kind of influence that that mech represents!”

“No.” Optimus’ voice is firm and thunderous, and Legend falls silent, dropping back in his chair with a look of defeat. “No, Legend. If Mirage wants to bond Hound… I want him _loyal._ I want him _happy._ Giving up an advantage I never expected to have - we will make do. _You_ will make do.”

Legend is silent - very silent - for a moment. Then he rises, optics dim, to his pedes. “As my Prime wills it.” The words have a bitter taste to them, and echo on the air as he strides, helm high, to the door.

It clicks shut behind him, and Optimus gives it a klik before he speaks.

“Do you think I’m being an idiot, too?”

“Ye know I don’.” Ironhide shifts in his seat, dragging it a little closer than the stiff formality of a councellor advising his Prime. “I - I like th’ kid too much ta give ye good advice, but…” He shrugs. “I want t’ see him happy. Havin’ ‘is choice of loves - tha’ don’ seem so unreasonable, ta a pair o’ commoners like us.”

“Primus, ‘Hide. I’m -” Optimus gives a dry chuckle. “I’m _such_ a commoner, aren’t I? No wonder all the nobles think I’m ridiculous, not wanting to _force_ a mech to _bond_ for some kind of - of _political advantage!_ ”

He nearly spits the words - rises to his pedes and crosses the room in three long strides to _slam_ a fist into the wall with a snarl of frustration. “And he’s right, but - Primus, I hate this -”

“He ain’ right, Optimus -” Ironhide starts to protest, but Optimus shakes his helm.

“But he _is_ \- mechs die every day, out on the fronts, and they’re there because _I asked them to go -_ ”

“They’re there ‘cause there’s a war on, Optimus, an’ it ain’ ye tha’ started it!” Ironhide rises to his pedes with a rumble, strides towards Optimus and grabs him by a shoulder, shoving him back. “Mechs was dyin’ before ye took over, an’ mechs’ll die after, an’ there ain’ a slaggin’ thing we can do ta stop it - tha’ don’ mean yer _wrong_ fer wantin' t’ spare mechs sufferin’ where ye can!”

Optimus gives a heavy vent, staring down into his optics. “You think I should let them bond, then.” 

“‘Course I do. What’s Megatron got t’ say?” Because he knows, to the spark of himself, that Megatron has an opinion, and has never shied from making it known.

“The same thing.” Optimus reaches up, tugs at his wrist, and Ironhide lets go. “Mostly. More swearing - a couple of extra threats.”

Ironhide lets out a soft chuff of amusement. “Legend always was th’ one thing we ‘greed on.”

“That’s what he said.” Optimus chuckles. “Almost word-for-word.” He pauses, then sighs. “He’s not a bad mech. He wants what’s best for Cybertron.”

“He don’ care who he hurts, Optimus. He likes it - likes causin' mechs pain ta watch ‘em squirm, an’ we both know it.”

It’s an accusation Optimus can’t argue with, so he just shrugs, turning to brush a thumb over the dent in the wall. “Maybe so. Still - I don’t like antagonizing him, like this. I don’t want to have such an - and _adversarial relationship_ with one of my own council - it’s not fair, to me or him.”

“Maybe it ain’t ye who should change, mech.” Ironhide waves a hand dismissively. “He was a good Op, once. Could be ‘gain - might even be a relief, ta go back ta groundwork an’ let somemech else wrangle ye fer a while. Wouldn’ be th’ first time a Prime’d shuffled ‘is council ‘cause he an’ somemech didn’ click.”

“Who to replace him with, though?” It’s the difficult question - one to which Ironhide doesn’t have a ready answer. “Elita - she would never willingly leave Crystal City, and I need someone I trust to watch the lords there. Tarn would be…”

He trails off, and they both pause for a klik to contemplate the scope and scale of the disaster that would be introducing _Tarn_ to Iacon in any fashion.

“Tarn’d be entertainin’. Ye could let ‘im bring those pet maniacs o’ his...” Ironhide offers, with a grin. “Be a bloodbath, but a fun one.”

“Megatron would never forgive me if I let _Tarn_ start slaughtering the nobility, Ironhide.” Optimus gives a joking sniff. “He has dibs.”

“Tell him t’ get on it, then.” Ironhide chuckles. “But… I dunno. Bee? I _like_ Bee.”

Optimus groans. “I would _kill_ to have Bee take over Ops. Primus, can you imagine?”

“Command meetin’s tha’ don’ end wi’ somemech stormin’ out an’ me wantin' ta tear mech’s helms off? Sounds blissful. Shame Bee’d rather dive off a tower than get pr’moted any higher.”

“Hear me out, though.” Optimus grins, and his field, finally, is a little lighter. “We stick him in a pit, first -”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ironhide ends the comm, Bumblebee’s amused voice dropping away, and grins at Optimus. ::Bee’s got ‘raj distracted pretty good - if ye want t’ meet th’ kid, now’s pro’bly th’ best chance we’re gonna get.:: 

::Are you sure that this is a good idea, Ironhide?:: There’s a note of _deep_ doubt to Optimus’ tone as he follows Ironhide out into the gardens at an ambling pace. :: _Intentionally_ isolating a young mech to talk to them feels - I don’t know. Unkind?::

::Eh, pro’bly.:: Ironhide shrugs. ::But it ain’ like ‘e’s gonna talk ta ye any other way, mech. You get th’ two o’ them alone t’gether, an’ Hound’s jus’ gonna shut th’ slag up an’ let ‘raj talk. Which, y’know, smart o’ them - but not tha’ productive fer ye.::

::I should make _you_ Ops commander.:: Optimus’ voice is teasing. 

::Leg’d probably enjoy the executions more if ‘e was holdin’ th’ axe,:: Ironhide agrees. ::My mechs’re sayin’ he’s over by th’ labradorite sculptures - should be able ta just wander by.::

They make their way over unhurriedly. The labradorite sculptures are monoliths, the shifting rainbow stone carved and polished into twisting figures - the Primes, massive, snarling beastformers, the great, arching form of a predacon -

It’s as they round the mighty beast’s tail that Ironhide catches sight of Hound - on his knees in front of a bed of tiny, perfectly-formed spinels growing on a bed of pristine white quartz. He seems wholly enraptured - he doesn’t even look up as they approach.

“They’re very pretty, aren’t they?” Optimus asks, after a few moments. “I’ve always loved how delicate the spinels looked against the quartz.”

“Somemech did a beautiful job with them, yeah,” the gardener agrees, helm shifting as he examines the growths from close up. “They got a gorgeous pinking, too - there’s not enough magnesium, near our tower, so all of ours turn out sort of yellowish -”

He finishes his examination, glances up, and freezes, optics going huge.

“My - Lord Prime.” The word come out a little strangled, and it takes him another moment to remember to bow his helm. “I’m sorry - I didn’t realize that it was you -”

“It’s alright.” It’s easy to pick up the frissions of real terror building in Hound’s field, and Optimus hurries to push comfort into his own in response. “I enjoyed hearing your thoughts on the spinels, Hound. Would you walk with Ironhide and I, and talk for a bit?”

“Of course, my Lord Prime -” Ironhide can hear the exact moment when the automatic agreement registers more fully within the green mech’s processors, and he realizes what, exactly, he’s agreed to, in the way his fans tick up. Optimus can too, obviously, but he only smiles and offers the younger mech a hand up.

A hand that Hound carefully avoids taking, or even looking at particularly hard, as he scrambles to his pedes, plating clamped tight with stress. He stands stoic-still, for a moment, looking completely lost and then, hesitantly, asks, “Where would you like to go, sir?”

“Hm.” Optimus feigns consideration. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in this section of the gardens -” it hasn’t; they walk this exact path several times an orn - “what have you seen so far that’s caught your optic?”

That seems to trigger _some kind_ of gardening impulse in Hound, because he only hesitates a moment before setting off down the path. “There’s a citrine over here that’s sending off some really beautiful spars, my Lord Prime. It’s - they go all oily, after the rains, I’ve always thought it was very pretty…”

“It is,” Optimus offers, as they approach the towering yellow crystals - a truly ancient growth that’s almost twice as tall as Optimus. “Beautiful.”

He pauses, for a moment, but Hound doesn’t say anything else before he speaks again. “I wanted to ask, actually - how did the cuttings do?”

Hound makes a soft, helpless noise. “What?”

“The cuttings?” Optimus prompts, gently. “From our gardens? Mirage was bringing some back for you?”

“Oh.” Hound gives a stressed and shallow vent. “They’re - ah - fine. We lost some of the more delicate aragonite seeds - it was too hot, so the solution wicked away too fast - but -”

He trails off, optics huge, and ducks his helm. “Ah - my Lord Prime.”

“It’s alright, Hound. There’s no need for such formality.” The tension in Hound’s frame says that he doesn’t believe that, _at all_ , but Optimus politely ignores it. 

Ironhide takes pity on - well, both of them, really. “Why don’ ye come an’ have a cube wi’ us, mech? Talk a bit.” He lays a hand on Hound’s shoulder, guiding him on down the path, and he can _feel_ how quickly his vents are churning even through his armor.

“Yes, sir.” Hound almost whispers the words.

He walks obediently at Ironhide’s side, helm hung low with all the grim resignation of a condemned mech. It’s as they near the veranda that Ironhide receives a ping - a priority transmission from Bumblebee.

::What’s up, Bee?:: He pings back by way of acknowledgement, and Bumblebee’s cheery voice greets him on the other end.

::Hey, ‘Hide. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up - we’re on the other side of the palace, still, but we’re on our way over. Hound must’ve commed Mirage the klik he caught sight of you.::

::Ye can’t distract ‘im fer a couple more breems?:: It’s surprising - Bumblebee is usually a master at diversion - but he gets pinged negation a moment later.

::He’s panicking, I think - almost knocked me over trying to get to the door. I’d say you have a - breem, maybe? He doesn’t know the halls - he’s gonna get lost, but… maybe two? We’re kind of - jogging along, right now.::

::Pit.:: Ironhide doesn’t let his annoyance show in his field, but he does ping Optimus with the update to their plans. ::Let me know when you’re hittin’ th’ gardens - hopefully Hound ain’ gonna clam up too badly on us -::

::Good luck!:: Bumblebee offers, voice still cheerful, and drops out of the comm.

The veranda is - in theory - a neutral, peaceful place for the Prime to entertain guests. Hound approaches it with a sort of caution that Ironhide usually sees reserved for minefields - the tension in his field is like a stinging in the air as they draw near. It’s quiet, the servants dismissed, with only a collection of elegant cubes laid neatly out to hint at their presence, and a stoppered decanter of energon at the center of one of the smaller, more private tables.

Ironhide nudges Hound towards one of the seats as Optimus settles into his own, reaching to pour the green mech a cube of energon before filling one for himself. He settles down as Optimus cracks the seal on his own cube, making sure that Hound can see him drink it - not that he really expects a servant to suspect poisoning, except that Hound is staring at his own cube like it might twist and bite him.

“There’s cadmium, if you prefer it sweet,” Optimus offers after a moment, and Ironhide feels a flush of pride - it’s the type of slight-of-hand permission that had taken him vorn to come to grips with after his ascension.

It proves just as effective on Hound as on the court - he hesitates just a moment longer, and raises the cube to sip.

There’s a klik of quiet as Optimus drinks from his own cube, but Hound lets his settle to the table after just the one. Ironhide watches, hiding his own amusement, as he very carefully _doesn’t look_ at Optimus - shooting little furtive glances hidden in a careful examination of the cube.

Finally, though, he speaks, voice soft. “Is Mirage going to get in trouble, for - for consorting with me?” 

“Ye ain’ more worried ‘bout yerself, kid?” Ironhide asks, curious.

“I’m a commoner, sir. I figured -” Hound lets out a dry, panicky laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. “I’m talking to the Prime. I’m already in as much trouble as I can be in, I think.”

“You aren’t in any trouble, Hound.” That gets a soft chuff of disbelief, but Optimus reaches out to lay a hand on the smaller mech’s arm. “You aren’t. Why would you be?”

“I was -” Hound hesitates, shooting a glance at Ironhide. “I was telling him he should - should just run off. That’s - even I know that’s sedition. At least.” His gaze drops, optics darkening.

“I’m not going to charge you with sedition, Hound.” Optimus pauses, waiting until he looks up to go on. “I’m not - it’s a discretionary charge, and I have no intention of pursuing it against you. You’re here because I wanted to meet you, because you’re someone Mirage cares about, not because you’re in trouble.”

“Oh.” Hound still sounds doubtful, and Optimus vents.

“What have I done, that you dislike me so much?” Hound makes a little chuff of protests, and Optimus shakes his helm. “It’s alright, Hound - I’m not going to be upset with you, I’m just - curious.”

There’s a long moment where Hound is silent - he looks up, staring at Optimus with wide, bright optics. Then he opens his mouth, and the words seem to spill out, like he’s not able to bottle them up -

“I… don’t like the fact that -” Hound cuts himself off, shoulders tensing as if bracing for a blow. “I don’t - you’re just another mech that he’s letting control him, and -”

He falls silent, flinching back, and Ironhide doesn’t blame him - he’s executed mechs for saying less. But that was to a different Prime - and Optimus, instead, only bows his helm in agreement.

“I am glad,” he offers, after a moment, “that Mirage has a mech who cares so strongly for him.”

Hound hesitates. “I love him.”

“I can tell.”

“I… I want him to be happy.” There’s another pause, and Hound glances away. “I want him to be happy _with me._ ”

“Would you be happy? It’s not an easy life, being a commoner among the nobility.” Optimus lets a flicker of amusement chase across his field. “They will never, ever let you forget it. I would know.”

“With him? I would - there’s nowhere I wouldn’t be happy, as long as he was there with me.”

::Ironhide?:: Bumblebee’s voice cuts across comms, distracting him for a moment. ::We’re in the gardens, at the southeast entrance, and we’re at the headlong-sprint stage of things - you’ve got maybe a klik before we reach you three::

::Understood.:: Ironhide drops out of that channel, and pings Optimus, who glances over with a nod..

“How did you meet?” he asks. “Did you always work for his House, or…?”

The question seems to take Hound only a little off-guard, but he nods. “My sire was Lord - was _Shroud’s_ -” he corrects himself - “turbohound master. He offlined in a hunting accident, but Shroud kept me on - apprenticed me in the gardens, when I was old enough to work.”

“Mirage said you enjoy working with the crystals,” Optimus prompts, and Hound gives a shy smile as he nods.

“I do, my Lord Prime. I’m fortunate to be so well suited to my function.”

Optimus nods, and starts to say something else - but he’s interrupted by the sound of rapid pedesteps, and Mirage’s blue form bursting from between the crystals.

“Hound -” his voice is ragged, desperate - he stands for a moment, shoulders trembling, taking in the scene of the three of them, sitting around a table fueling, and some of the terror slips from his gaze and is replaced by confusion - “My - ah, my Lord Prime -”

“Oh, Mirage,” Optimus offers with a smile, gesturing at Hound as if he’s not already gloating about a well-executed trap. “We were just talking about you.”

“You - ah, were, my Lord Prime?” Mirage’s vents are still churning with exertion, but he looks off-guard, glancing from Optimus to Hound and back. “I - um…”

“Come and sit.” Optimus gestures to the chair besides Hound’s, and Mirage, latching on to the instruction, obeys. “Hound was just telling me about your relationship.”

“He was?” Mirage asks, voice pitching up - he glances to Hound, who shrugs, helplessly, helm ducking low. The noble reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the green mech’s and squeezing fondly. “I mean - I love him, my Lord Prime. We -” He pauses, glancing away. “I know my duty to you.”

“Do you?” Optimus prompts, and Mirage hesitates.

“It’s not a… not a rare thing for a noble to take a servant as a lover, my Lord Prime. It’s - no one would try to - to turn down a bonding because of it.”

“I see.” Optimus leans back to consider him for a klik. “And is that what you - both of you - want?”

“I want -” Hound starts, and hesitates, but Mirage squeezes his hand again, reassuring, and his voice strengthens. “I want to be with Mirage. We always knew -” he vents, softly. “We always knew what we were getting into, my Lord Prime. I’ll be - it’ll be enough, as long as I can be with him.”

“I want to be with him. Until my spark burns cold.” Mirage’s voice is soft with steel. “I - whatever that means for us.”

“And if you could bond?” Optimus asks, and Mirage doesn’t hesitate for a moment.

“In a sparkbeat, my Lord Prime.”

Optimus snorts softly. “Well - maybe not so quickly as that.” He gives a faint, very faint, grin. “Take some time - bonding isn’t a decision to be made lightly. But… when you’re ready, you have my blessing.”

There’s a moment of silence - then Mirage makes a dazed, helpless little whine. Hound’s optics are huge, and bright, and utterly unguarded with shock.

“What?” He finally manages to squeeze out, a thin, weedy little word.

“Consider it, I mean. If you never really thought about it before - even if you’ve known each other a long time, bonding is a big step.” Optimus feigns ignorance for just a moment longer, then gives Hound a gentle smile. “You have my permission to court - to bond, Hound.”

“Oh.” It’s a breathy little exhalation, barely a word, and Hound’s fingers tighten in Mirage’s.

“My Lord Prime -” Mirage looks… lost. His field flickers with surprise against Ironhide’s, shock and confusion mingling with desperate _want -_ “My Lord -”

“It’s alright, Mirage.” Optimus’ voice is coaxing, kind, as he meets the younger mech’s optics. “My advisors have informed me - at length - of your… responsibilities to me. But if you’ve found the mech you love… I want you to be happy, Mirage. That’s worth more than your spark as a bargaining chip.”

“I - my Lord Prime…” There’s a faint tremor to Mirage’s shoulders, a look of wild disbelief in his optics. He falls silent for a moment, mouthing something, wordlessly, before he manages to make another sound. “Thank you. Thank you - thank you, my Lord Prime -”

Hound reaches forwards, hesitantly, and the moment his fingers brush Mirage’s side the noble is twisting to wrap him in a desperate embrace, whole frame shaking with relief as he clings to the green mech. Hound’s arms wrap around him, holding him close, and he whispers something too quiet to hear, over and over, his own optics bright with shock.

Ironhide rises from his own seat to brush a hand over Mirage’s shoulder, gently rub Hound’s. “You two okay?” He asks, gently, and Mirage looks up at him with wide optics -

“You’ll be my - my amica, won’t you?” he asks, voice desperate. “I mean, not my amica, but - I’m sorry, I don’t have anyone else to ask, and you’ve been so kind -”

“You want me ta -” It takes Ironhide a moment to realize what he’s asking - when he does, his gaze softens. “Slag, kid, o’ course -”

“Oh -” Hound makes a soft noise. “I don’t -” He trails off, field flushing with embarrassment, and Optimus shifts in his seat.

“If you need someone to stand with you -” he begins - Hound’s optics shoot to him, widening - “It would be a pleasure, Hound.”

“I -” He makes a soft noise of disbelief. “Really?”

“If you would have me.”

“My Lord Prime -” Hound hesitates, and then ducks his helm - “If you would - it would be an honor -”

“The honor would be mine,” Optimus replies with a fond smile, reaching out to lay a hand on the younger mech’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after :D The End!
> 
> ...Not quite, LOL. But pretty close, tbh - as you can see, they're still going strong by the main events of CiC...
> 
> And yes, Optimus and Ironhide are the bonded mechs who help them through their own bonding. Hound doesn't really know anymech bonded - bonding is rarer among commoners than among the nobles they serve, and for obvious reasons (namely the fact that bonding mechs go a bit feral around unbonded ones) he can't ask any of his unbonded friends... And all the bonded mechs Mirage was close to are dead. TBH, he'd probably have asked Ironhide even if they weren't, they're quite close by this point :D
> 
> Poor Hound, honestly. He has done nothing but love his sneaky spy husband (or, well, shy noble boyfriend, at this point. we'll get there) and now he has to deal with The Prime. It's hard to explain the distance between a gardener for a noble house and the Prime - it's like the distance between a regular Catholic Italian guy and the Pope. He's around, sure - he might visit your town, or you might go to see him, and he does a big public speech on holidays that you probably watch on TV if you can't go in person, but... you're never going to _talk_ to him. Especially not in private! Even meeting someone as important as Ironhide - who has his own complicated little religious role, kind of like a Cardinal when he has to be, but he low-key hates it and avoids bringing it up as much as he can - is a capital-B Big Deal, and having Optimus Prime roll up on you in a garden is a pant-shitting moment even if you _haven't_ actually done something wrong. All the Ironhide and Optimus assuring you you aren't in trouble in the world is only going to go so far :D
> 
> Suggesting the Prime's sworn servant welch on his oaths so he can marry you, is, by the way, something wrong. Legend is being delicate about things b/c he knows Optimus is a softy - during Sentinel's day, the only thing he would have done if Ironhide had brought up a conversation like that would have been asked why the seditious peasant hadn't been executed on the spot... But Sentinel was kind of a dick like that. 
> 
> And speaking of Legend... Hm. That pot continues to simmer... And we find out what's up with Tarn in this AU! He's the head of special ops for a region called the Southern Spar - a territory consisting of Tarn, Kaon, and Helix, with Stanix in between them! They're the military powerhouses of Cybertron, at this point - three powerful industrial city-states that pump out weapons, ships, and fighting mechs. They're unique in that, unlike most of the other territories on Cybertron, you can walk between any of the cities unharmed - the soldiers there have, FFVII style, cleared out the horrors that dwell on the surface, so there aren't any empties or sparkeaters or such. They train new troops out there, so it's actually pretty civilized - as opposed to the cities, which, as Bee mentioned, are rough places. Not even criminally - mechs there just have a violent, combat-oriented culture to match their rugged frames and military lifestyles.
> 
> Tarn is just as fanatical and vicious as he is in canon, but it's tempered and channeled more productively. The DJD doesn't exist, but he does have a hand-picked team of murderous torturers - three of them: Kaon, Helix, and Stanix. He's the Ops helm the Spar needs, and 1000% unsuited for even travelling anywhere else.
> 
> From here... Next chapter's gonna skip forwards to, well, Nyon! Or rather, the immediate aftermath of Nyon - Hot Rod's gonna have to wait for his turn, the poor thing :D But that's about two centivorns away - and is gonna be Ironhide dealing with Mirage being an Op, so that should be fun! And after that... A couple more shorter fics - we'll see some of Mirage's life in Ops, but it won't be as much as the last short-fic-chapter, probably just 3 or so, because then we're gonna see Mirage's promotion, and do a few more short fics going into the current day! And then we'll be free and clear - Cliffjumper's one-shot, probably, and then back to the main crew!
> 
> I realize the chapters have been coming more slowly - last chapter, was, like I said, because of sads. This chapter was slow because of horny - I've been doing some... work in the blue, so to speak. I can't post it on this account because I'm using this story as a professional reference, but I have a sexy side account over here if BDSM/kink stuff is your jam: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endstorm/pseuds/Endstorm I've got at least one or two pieces in the pipeline that are going to be Jazz/Prowl in this universe, and I'll post links here again when they come up, but I'm going to delete this paragraph when the next chapter goes up so I don't have any connection between the two accounts.
> 
> Let me know what you think :D I'm pretty happy with this chapter, I've gotta say - it needs some touches here or there, but god do I love these two...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Rodimus' eventual origin story - Optimus and Ironhide return to Iacon from Nyon.

::D’ye mind takin’ Roddy, Aile?:: Ironhide asks as they enter the outer gates of the Primal Palace. The youngling is curled over his chest, deep in recharge, and only shifts, slightly, as Aileron gently takes him, stroking his spoiler gently when he mumbles against his chest.

::Of course, carrier - I mean, _Commander._ :: That gets a chuckle from everyone on the general channel - including Optimus, who gives him a teasing grin as they break off from the rest of the team and head for his own suites.

::Would ye jus’ keep ‘im in yer room ‘til me an’ th’ Prime’re done chasin’ slag ‘round?:: Ironhide requests of the other guard on a more private channel. ::Don’ want ‘im wakin’ up alone, ‘specially ‘cause I think I left a bunch ‘o guns out in my room ‘fore we left…::

::Of course.:: The aerial’s voice is warm and fond. ::If you aren’t back by the time he wakes up, I’ll take him down to the common rooms. I’m sure we can keep one youngling distracted between us…::

::Thanks, mech. I owe ye one.:: Ironhide pings back with a grin, and returns his focus to Optimus. 

He gets a teasing ping of affirmation before the channel closes.

“I’ll let Chalet know to have arrangements made for him,” Optimus says, as they reach the doors. “Some toys, and books - just until you have the time to sort things out.”

“That’d be good, yeah.” Ironhide nods. He glances around - more than a little surprised that Legend isn’t there, waiting to greet them. He can see that Optimus has picked up on it, too - feel the flicker of curiosity in his field.

::Must be chasin’ somethin’ ‘round,:: he offers. ::Haven’t heard o’ anythin’ particularly notable goin’ on in th’ palace, but you know how Ops gets.::

::Probably,:: Optimus pings back, with a soft chuckle, as they head for his suites.

The second sign that something is wrong comes when a leggy red mech that Ironhide recognizes distinctly as Ops notices them and _swerves_ down another corridor with an almost panicked look to avoid them.

::That’s not good.:: Ironhide comments. He hears a low, cautious hum of agreement from Optimus, and does his best to keep the charging of his capacitors _quiet_ as he readies his cannon - Ops acting cagey is almost _never_ a good sign.

Still, they reach Optimus’ rooms uneventfully, his Prime’sguard stepping neatly aside to grant them access. Ironhide puts a hand across Optimus’ chest before he lets him enter, however. 

::You two, go in. Perform a sweep.:: It’s not a common command, but the two guards he indicates snap to attention, heading into the rooms before them. ::Check the vents, anything out of place. Standard chem’cal, radiological, ‘splosives sweeps. Take any fuel ye find, even th’ sealed slag, fer testin’.:: He nods to the other two guards. ::Eyes up, mechs. What’s been goin’ on ‘round here?::

::Nothing particular to report, commander,:: one of them replies, briskly, gaze sweeping the hall as Ironhide positions himself between Optimus and a potential attacker. She pings over a file - a log of observations from the teams guarding the Prime’s suites. It’s completely normal - but that doesn’t mean anything, where Ops might be concerned.

::Why’re th’ Ops mechs runnin’ scared on me, then?::

::Oh!:: She sounds surprised, at that, but relaxes, just slightly. Her focus stays unwavering, though - she, they all, have been trained well. ::No idea, sir, but it’s not because the Prime is back - at least, I don’t believe so. They’ve been jumpy for almost two orn, Commander, no one’s quite sure why.::

::Some kind of intra-ops drama,:: offers her partner. ::They’re staying tight-lipped about it, whatever it is. Are we on any kind of code, sir? I’ve already commed for a secondary team.::

Ironhide gives him an approving rumble, debating if it’s worth locking down the Prime’s suites over Ops drama. After a klik, he shakes his helm. ::Not ‘less th’ team in there find somethin’, kid. Let me brief th’ Prime - I ain’ seen nothin’ in particular ta set me on edge, jus’ -::

::Instincts,:: they respond, pinging back affirmation: and a Prime’sguard’s charges live or die by their instincts.

::Ops drama, apparently,:: he comms Optimus. ::Don’ suppose Leg’s filled ye in?::

::What?:: Optimus hesitates. ::No, he hasn’t mentioned. Give me a klik, let me go through -::

There’s a moment of silence as he skims his reports, then, voice soft, he rumbles, ::Oh.::

It’s not a sound that suffuses Ironhide with confidence. ::Oh?::

::Not out here,:: Optimus offers, sounding - distracted. ::Once we’re inside -::

::Sir.:: Ironhide gives a short nod, refocusing on the pair working their way through the suite.

It takes almost half a joor for them to have finished - their work meticulous and careful. By the time they emerge, a dozen carefully-documented cubes in hand, the secondary team has arrived - an additional size mechs.

::Ye two - an’... ye.:: He marks out two of the new arrivals with a wave of his hand. ::Get those ta Red Alert - have ‘im pull samples, an’ then take ‘em ta medical fer further testing. They don’ leave yer sight, understood? Anything shows up, or any Ops mechs try ta get between ye an’ them, an’ ye order a code Indigo an’ comm me immediate.:: Indigo - Ops, assumed compromised; an attempt on the life of the Prime. It’s not a code he’s ever had to issue before - but it wouldn’t be the first time a Prime has been targeted by his own assassins, and Ironhide won’t take chances.

The team of four depart - he gets a ping a moment later; Red Alert confirming that he’s tracking their progress through the halls. He hesitates for just a moment, before pinging the hacker as he gives orders to the six remaining mechs. ::Ye know wha’s got Ops edgin’ ‘round on us, Red?::

::Legend has been isolating himself in Ops since we received word of Optimus’ handling of Quickstrike’s betrayal.:: Red Alert pauses. ::Ops in general have been much more… reclusive. Beyond that, I’m not sure - you know my coverage within Ops is… less than satisfactory.::

That Red has any _coverage within Ops_ is something of a minor miracle - the Opsmechs and he have been waging a back-and-forth battle for years, them removing cameras and sensors as fast as he can set them up. Still, it’s something. ::Thanks, Red.::

::I’ll have those tests for you as soon as your mechs arrive,:: is his only reply, as Red Alert cuts the comm.

It’s not until they’re safely settled in Optimus’ sitting room, two Prime’sguard watching them inside the closed door, that he relaxes. The guards are carefully neutral - it’s rare, for him to post guards within the suite proper, but he isn’t willing to risk himself being overwhelmed by an unseen attacker. Regardless, they’re professionals - senior guards, who know how to keep their glossas still.

“So…” he asks, after a klik. Optimus glances up, distracted from his files.

“Oh - sorry.” He pauses for just a moment, before settling back against the couch and - briefly, shuttering his optics to let out a heavy vent. “Legend has, apparently, recruited Mirage into Ops.”

There’s a pause - then Ironhide lets his engine rumble in ill-concealed anger. “ _What._ ”

“Several of these reports have him as the agent of record.” Optimus pings him the files, but Ironhide doesn’t bother to look at them. “It’s -”

“You _told ‘im_ ta keep ‘is ‘ands ta ‘imself.” Ironhide isn’t sure if the snarl in his voice is earnest frustration, or indignation at the disrespect - he isn’t sure if it matters. “He -”

“Disobeyed that.” Optimus’ voice is deceptively mild - only long experience lets Ironhide hear the note of frustrated steel beneath the words. “I am _aware_ , Ironhide.”

It’s not quite a reprimand, but Ironhide falls silent, anyways.

Optimus is silent for a moment - then he lets his helm fall forwards into one hand, whole frame slumping a little in frustration. “Primus.”

“Ye want me t’ have some o’ my mechs round ‘im up an’ bring ‘im up here ta talk?” Ironhide offers, but Optimus shakes his helm. 

“No. No - give me a klik. I’ll comm him - I won’t aggravate this -” he waves a hand at Ironhide - “this _thing_ between the two of you, if I don’t have to. He’ll come.”

“I would rather…” Ironhide starts, then pauses, trying to figure out a way to phrase things without sounding unbelievably petty. “ _As yer personal guard,_ I would _rather_ ye not meet wi’ him in yer suites, sir.”

“The private audience room, then.” Optimus nods. 

It doesn’t take more than a comm to have a team heading over to sweep the room in question, and Ironhide gives a curt but grateful nod. The Prime’s suites, while lovely and designed to stymie assassins, are too dense with furniture - and in a one-on-one fight between himself and Legend, he’d rather the spymaster have nowhere to hide. “It should be cleared fer us in a breem.”

Optimus hesitates. “Us?”

“Optimus…” Ironhide lets the formality slip away a little. “I ain’ gonna lie an’ tell ye I think Legend’s gonna try ta slag ye. But I am gonna say tha’ if he _did_ , wi’out a guard at yer side, ye’d be dead ‘fore any o’ us could reach ye. He’s a talented mech, an’ ‘e was a killer fer a long time ‘fore ‘e got pulled from th’ field.”

“You don’t think he’s going to kill me?” Optimus snorts, gesturing at the guards, who don’t even twitch at their posts. “Are you sure?”

“I don’.” He shrugs. “I think ‘e’s a vile little mech, don’ get me wrong. I think’ ‘e likes watchin’ mechs suffer, an’ ‘e’d be happy t’ bend whatever rules ye set fer him ta just ‘fore they break t’ cause a little more pain. I think ye shoulda let me kill ‘im centivorns ago, an’ I think every bit o’ fuel an’ ounce o’ repairs he receives could be better spent on any o’ a million other worthy mechs - but I don’ think ‘e’s gonna kill ye. But neither did Zodiac, an’ him an’ Calculus are both dead ‘cause o’ it, an’ I don’ like ye takin’ chances.

The mention of the long-dead Prime makes Optimus pause - then nod, glancing away. “Fair enough.” He’s quiet for a moment before meeting Ironhide’s optics. “I don’t want you needling him, ‘Hide. This isn’t - this _can’t_ turn into a power play between the two of you.”

Ironhide gives a soft snort. “It already is - ye know tha’ ‘s well as I do. But - I get what yer sayin’. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Primus.” Optimus says it like a curse. “If he was just messing with you - I _know_ you don’t get along, but…”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Optimus is uncharacteristically quiet when they make their way to the audience chamber. He’s settled, Ironhide standing, face expressionless and stern, at his shoulder, when there’s a brisk tap on the door and a guard leans in to announce Legend.

The spymaster himself brushes into the room a moment later - and if he’s at all anxious about their meeting, he hides it well. “My Lord Prime.” He sweeps into a low and perfect bow. “Ironhide,” he adds as he rises, only the thinnest bit of distaste slipping through on the name.

“Legend.” Optimus nods a greeting, gesturing at the chair across from himself. 

“How was your journey, my Lord Prime?” Legend asks as he sinks into the seat. “I’ve tracked the reports, of course, but…”

“It was well enough.” Optimus shrugs. “Disquieting. Dealing with - well, everything about Nyon, really. Quickstrike. How were things in Iacon?”

Their conversation is - well, useful stuff, and Ironhide doesn’t hesitate to listen in - but it’s nothing terribly interesting: the movements of the Lords, new potential threats that he’ll hear more about once Ops has had a chance to distill them down to the most essential data. It’s the sort of thing that the Primacy runs on - Ironhide lets it was over him, logging anything that catches his attention, but otherwise not overthinking it.

“There was one other matter I wished to discuss with you, Legend.” Optimus comments, as the conversation - evidently a productive one; Legend looks almost relaxed as he nods. “I was reviewing some of the files you sent me - the mission logs? A name came up that I hadn’t been expecting.”

The way Legend tenses - it’s slight; if Ironhide weren’t looking for it, he would miss it - and the way Legend’s gaze flicks, just for a moment, to him.

“Since when is Mirage working with Special Operations?” Optimus asks, voice deceptively even. It cuts through the air like a whip, regardless.

There’s a long pause - only a moment, but it feels stretched out. “He isn’t,” Legend offers, bowing his helm, just slightly. The _yet_ is obvious, but -

“Oh?” Optimus cocks his helm. “He’s on the files as agent of record -”

“A formality - he was… assisting in an infiltration.” Legend pauses, for a moment. “There were a few documents being held by one of your more… _vocal_ opponents in the Senate - flimsies only, as far as my operative investigating could tell.” He gives an airy wave of his hand. “I approached him to ask if he’d be willing to assist my agents in their retrieval, and he was - well, eager.”

Optimus gives a thoughtful hum, gaze not wavering. “Mm. And how did he handle himself, Legend?”

“He was good at the work, my Lord Prime. He enjoyed it - he’s been spending some of his off joors training with a few of my mechs.” Legend gives an elegant shrug of his shoulders - one that’s only contradicted by the faint flicker to his gaze. “He’s got a good spark for the work, a talent - if we’d been aware of it, I would have suggested recruiting him millennia ago.”

“And yet, you did suggest it.” Ironhide can see the way Legend’s frame tenses, just slightly, at the words. “And - correct me if I’m wrong, Legend - I believe I told you _no._ ”

Legend hesitates for a long, still moment. “Yes, my Lord Prime.”

“Would you care to explain yourself?” Optimus’ voice makes it very clear that he _expects_ an explanation, and Legend, for the first time that Ironhide has ever seen, quails.

“He was sworn to you, and had a useful talent - I didn’t think you would object to me making use of that -” Ironhide can’t quite hide the flicker of his field, at that, and Legend gives a low snarl, his optics narrowing as he turns to glare at the larger mech. “He isn’t a _child,_ Ironhide - he’s a too-”

He chokes on the word when _Optimus’_ give a deep, bassy thrum.

“ _Quiet._ Both of you.” Optimus rumbles the word like thunder, voice cold and dark enough to make even Ironhide’s field prick with alarm. “Legend. Come here.”

Legend looks like a doomed man as he approaches the Prime, sinks to his knees in obvious contrition, and Ironhide can’t help but feel a little bad for him - his terror is obvious in his optics. Optimus leans forwards, looming over him, optics deep, dangerous blue.

“I have had a _very. Rough. Vorn._ ” It’s not quite a snarl, but the threat in his words is obvious. “I have spent _several orns_ cleaning up a mess left by another of my Special Operations Commanders - a mess that I do not blame you for. But this? _I am tired of this, Legend._ ”

He leans back, and the frustration in his gaze is obvious as he regards the kneeling mech. “You - Ironhide - this petty sniping? It _will not stand._ You know I’ve had words with Ironhide about it. Now I’m going to have that same conversation with you. Look at me.”

Legend obeys, silent.

“I _value_ Mirage, Legend.” Optimus gaze narrows. “I _value_ his talents, I _value_ his connections, and - about either of those - I _value_ his happiness. This is not a matter for debate, Legend. This is a statement of fact.”

Legend, wisely, doesn’t move a single cable.

“I will accept that you are not lying to me when you say that Mirage has enjoyed his work with Operations. I do not think that you are a fool, Legend. I do not think that you are foolish enough to lie to me.” He pauses, just long enough to confirm that Legend isn’t contradicting that, and brushes on. “I will speak to him, myself. If - only _if_ \- I am satisfied that it is _his desire_ to continue working with Special Operations, I will allow him to continue.”

Legend hesitates, then bows his helm. “Thank you, my Lord Prime.”

“He will not swear to Ops.” Legend’s optics widen, just a little - Ironhide can’t help but feel just as surprised, but Optimus shakes his helm. “He is sworn to me, me personally, and I will not have his role as an agent compromise his place as a lord.”

“Yes, my Lord Prime.” Legend’s voice is neutral, and carefully submissive.

“You will not involve yourself further, in his training, or his recruitment.” Optimus waves a hand. “He will be under Bumblebee’s direct supervision, should he choose to continue with Ops. I will oversee, as necessary.”

It’s a _significant_ rebuke, and Ironhide has to school himself carefully to avoid venting in relief - it puts Mirage out of reach of retaliation in a way that little else could. Legend seems to understand the same. “Yes, my Lord Prime.”

“And I expect this to be the end of this - this feud between the two of you, am I understood?” He turns his glare on Ironhide, who bows his helm in acquiescence, before continuing. “You will not involve Mirage further in this power play - you will not use _my pawns_ in _your squabbling!_ If you feel some - _youngling’s need_ to continue this, you will have a spry young mech with a very sharp knife _bring the matter to him directly_ , am I understood?”

“Yes, my Lord Prime. As my Prime wills it.” He remains bowed, unmoving, until Optimus vents, sinking back heavily in the chair.

“I have had to replace one commander already, this vorn, Legend. Please, don’t make there a second.” He waves a hand. “You are dismissed.”

Ironhide very carefully doesn’t look at Legend as the smaller mech scrambles to his pedes - he lets the spymaster retreat with what dignity he can, remaining immobile until the door clicks shut behind them. Optimus vents, heavily.

“Was I too harsh?”

“Eh.” Ironhide waits another moment before shrugging, and gesturing to his usual chair. “Can I sit, or am I up fer a dressin’ down too?”

“Did the flogging stick?” Optimus asks with a self-deprecating grin.

“Eh.” Ironhide repeats, again, and chuckles. “I haven’t slagged him since, so…”

“Sit down, ‘hide.” He vents again as Ironhide settles into the seat. “I hate this.”

“Ye handled it well, mech.” He gestures to the door. “Much as I’d love t’ frag wi’ him back… ye shut ‘im down quick, an’ made it clear what was gonna happen if he started slag again. An’ ye know -” he hastens to add - “you know I’ll let this go, right? Ain’ gonna be makin’ more work fer ye.”

“I do know that.” Optimus gives him a little grateful half-grin. “Besides, I’m less worried about you now. A conjunx, a sparkling - you can’t be half the spitfire you were when we first met.”

Ironhide snorts at that, but doesn’t argue the point. “So - an agent.” 

“An agent.” Optimus agrees. “He - it’s not a bad fit, for a mech with a spark-talent like his. And you know what they saw about sigma-gifted mechs getting enjoyment from fulfilling a similar function.”

“I hate it.” Ironhide replies, after a moment. “I - Primus, I know what they get up ta in Ops. I wouldn’ give any mech over ta them, Optimus - much less th’ younglin’ they were torturin’ a few centivorn ago.”

“It will be his choice, Ironhide.” The Prime’sguard snorts, but Optimus shakes his helm. “No - Mirage is already sworn to me, Ironhide. Those duties would take precedence over Ops work even if I did allow Legend to swear him as an agent. One way or another, I’ll make sure he has the choice.”

“I know ye will, Optimus. It’s just…” He’s silent for a klik, then he chuckles. “Wish ye wouldn’ tell yer spymaster ta have me slagged, mech.”

“Pff. As if any of Legend’s mechs could get to you.”

“Ye never know - I could be havin’ an off cycle.” Optimus laughs, and Ironhide grins back at him. “I’ve heard o’ that happenin’ - never seen it myself, ‘o course, but…”

“Oh?” Optimus gives him a teasing smirk. “Really? Why don’t you try telling that to _your original legs -_ ”

“Low blow!” Ironhide protests, but Optimus is ruthless.

“Not _that_ low - midway up your thigh was pretty good, I thought, you’re a fairly tall mech -”

Ironhide swats at him, and Optimus takes the blow with a laugh.

“We should comm Bumblebee,” he adds, after a klik. “I want to hear his opinion on this.”

Ironhide nods, sending a quick ping - which gets an even quicker response, to his surprise. ::Right away, Commander Ironhide.::

“He’ll be a breem,” he informs Optimus - who nods, and tosses him a cube from his subspace, cracking a second for himself. Ironhide downs it, relieved - he’s not low on fuel, not yet, but it’s been a long cycle and he’s getting there. He’s tucking it into his subspace when he receives a ping from the door guard, and gives Optimus a moment to set his own aside before telling the mech to let Bumblebee in.

The minibot’s face is solemn when he enters - unnervingly, uncharacteristically flat, and Optimus’ greeting dies on his lips as Bumblebee approaches, field glass-smooth, and sinks to his knees.

“My Lord Prime.” His voice is stiffly formal as he offers the greeting - a greeting that Ironhide isn’t sure he’s ever _heard_ from the minibot before, and certainly not so gravely offered. Bumblebee is silent, for a moment, when Optimus says nothing, optics bright with confusion. “I remember my oath, my Lord Prime. I serve in whatever capacity you require of me.”

Optimus is silent for a moment more, shooting Ironhide an almost panicky glance - he finds his voice just enough to choke out a, “What?”

Bumblebee hesitates, then glances up. “What?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Ironhide snorts. He rises from his chair, picks up Bumblebee by his scruff bar, and lowers him into Legend’s chair. “What?” He prompts, and Bumblebee pulls his legs up until he’s cross-legged in the seat, glancing from one of them to the other.

“I - guess you’re not going to order me to kill Legend and take his place as head of Ops, then?” He offers, after a moment. 

“ _What?_ ” Optimus repeats, at a slightly higher pitch. “Why would I - _no!_ ”

“Oh thank Primus.” Bumblebee’s whole frame relaxes. “One klik -”

He’s silent for a moment, obviously speaking over comms. “Sorry - I had a couple of our mechs guarding his door. I didn’t really fancy my odds in a fair fight, considering the -” he gestures to himself - “size differential.”

Optimus’ engine makes a pitched, faint whine, and Bumblebee hesitates. “You might want to comm him, actually - let him know you’re not sending me after him before he does something stupid, like stab his own agents and flee for the Kaonite border.”

“ _Stabs his own -_ ” Optimus’ voice is high with incredulity. “You think he’s going to _flee to Kaon?_ ”

Bumblebee gives him a wide-opticked expression. “What? No! Primus - that was a _joke_ , I’m sorry -” Optimus relaxes - a moment too soon, because Bumblebee continues: “Only an _idiot_ would head to Kaon, Tarn’s a maniac - Praxus, probably, and then off-planet through a Polyhexian spaceport -”

“ _Why would you think I’m having you kill Legend?_ ” Optimus’ voice reaches a strained whine, and Bumblebee gapes.

“Pit, Prime - _everyone_ thinks you’re going to kill Legend!” Optimus makes a choking noise, and Bumblebee corrects himself. “Well - everybody Ops - walking out of here the way he did! Straight to his office, locked himself in - and then you called me in here -”

He waves his hands helplessly, and then pauses. “You’re - you’re not having somemech _else_ kill him, are you?”

“No one’s killing Legend!” Optimus insists, and Bumblebee vents with relief. 

“Thank Primus.”

“Can I kill Legend?” Ironhide offers, just to have something to add to the conversation, and snorts in amusement when two mechs turn to tell him, with one voice, 

“No!”

He huffs for the show of it, but crosses his arms and leans back with a grin.

That’s enough to break some of the tension - Bumblebee gives Optimus a relieved little smile, and Optimus leans back, bewildered. “What the slag has been going on in Ops?”

“Well… our commander decided to mess with one of Ironhide’s _projects_ , which, for the record, I _told_ him was a bad idea - and then our _Prime_ wound up catching another Ops commander going behind his back in Nyon, and tore the offending mech’s helm off _himself._ ” Bumblebee grins. “It was about that point Legend started shuffling around looking _worried._ ”

Optimus vents. “Primus.” But Bumblebee cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Hold on, sir, I’m not done - so then Legend gets a comm to speak to you - not unusual, really - but he comes out looking _scared._ And then you call me in here.” Bumblebee snorts. “It’s considered very classic, having the Ops helm ascendant arrange the death of the mech they’re replacing, sir. Stylish.”

Optimus shakes his helm. “I’m not having Legend killed -” But he cuts himself off, gaze narrowing for just a moment as he considers Bumblebee. “ _Should_ I have Legend killed?”

Ironhide chokes on his vocalizer - it’s not the sort of question Optimus _asks_ \- but Bumblebee shrugs.

“Nomech’d be all that surprised if you did.” He gestures at Optimus, helm to pedes. “I mean, it’s no secret that you’ve got your disagreements -”

Optimus starts to protest, but Bumblebee just smirks, faintly. “No secret to anymech who _pays attention,_ sir. And we’re _good_ at paying attention.” That gets him a chuckle from Ironhide, and Optimus subsides. “You’ve got your disagreements, and - well, everyone knows that Ironhide has your audial. And Ironhide -” Bumblebee snorts - “ _hates_ Legend.”

“I do,” Ironhide concurs, unhelpfully.

“So… yeah. He’s not exactly a good fit for Ops helm - I think even he’s surprised that he’s lasted this long.”

“But - killing him?”

Bumblebee shrugs. “He pushes limits. He’s done it before. Sentinel liked his particular flavor of brutal, but you don’t - I think everyone’s just waiting to see what dumb thing he does that finally pushes you over the edge.” He gives a considering look to Ironhide. “Or, well - everyone knows ‘raj is Ironhide’s pet project. And Ironhide…”

“I’m a big mech.” Ironhide grins back.

“I mean -” Optimus glances away - but he trusts Bumblebee as much as Ironhide does, and the minibot has always been worthy of that confidence. “I’ve considered replacing him. Demotion - getting him back in the field, maybe -”

Bumblebee almost chokes on his own laughter. “Primus - you might as well let Ironhide have him, then, it’d be more entertaining -” It takes him a moment to master himself - he’s still half grinning when he speaks again. “You know that just means we kill him secret, right?”

The expression on Optimus’ face says, very clearly, that he does not.

“Yeah, we - uh -” Bumblebee falters a little, at that, obviously not having expected - “You don’t survive losing your post, when you’re helm of Ops. There’s - secrets, and slag. Stuff that _only_ Legend knows - deep cover operatives, and that sort of thing - well, other mechs know, but it’s need-to-know kind of stuff. Only he’s got the really _big_ picture. So we, um. Clean up. When there’s a change of command.”

“Oh.” Optimus shifts, uneasily. “That’s why you don’t -”

“- want the job? Yeah. I mean - I’m not worried about you slagging me, it’s just -” he shrugs - “I like small team stuff. I could handle it temporarily, but that leaves you without someone to put all the little pieces together, and that’s a big problem, with how fast things move in Iacon. Anything more than an orn or two, and I’d basically have to take the post for real.”

“But earlier -” Optimus hesitates. “You said - what was it?”

“I serve in whatever capacity you require of me?”

“Yes.” Optimus pauses awkwardly. “That.”

“Well, I mean…” He pauses, as if looking for a way to explain something. “You’re the Prime, sir. I might not want to - let me be clear, I _really really_ don’t - but if you say ‘Welcome to command, Bumblebee’ I say ‘Yes, my Lord Prime, am I shooting Legend in the processor or the spark?’”

There’s a moment of awkward silence - then he waves a hand. “That was, um, another joke. Sir. I wouldn’t ask that.” He pauses. “It would be a round through the spark, and then I’d have to personally feed his helm through this sort of grindery thing that - that you probably don’t want to hear about, honestly.”

“No, thank you.” Optimus vents heavily. “That wasn’t what I called you here for.”

“So how _can_ I help?” Bumblebee gives him one of his more normal, cheerier grins.

“Mirage,” Optimus explains. “I don’t want Legend involved in his training - or directly overseeing him on missions. You’ve got the most experience, commanding mechs without his oversight -” Bumblebee nods his agreement - “I want you to take over.”

“I can do that.” Bumblebee grins. “He’ll fit in well with my team, honestly - we’ve been needing someone who can get the additives off the high shelves.”

Ironhide snorts derisively. “I’ve been in that vent you call a base, Bee. You don’t have _high shelves_.”

“Yeah, well, you know, keep talking slag and you won’t have kneecaps, so that’s fair.” Bumblebee grins up at him, ducking when Ironhide takes a teasing swipe at him. “But - no, I think he’ll do well with us. He seems kind of - I don’t know. Lonely. Couple of minibots checking in on him regularly probably won’t go amiss.”

“Lonely?” Ironhide asks, curious. “I figured he an’ Hound’d still be hangin’ onto each other like newbonds.” 

“Oh - they are.” Bumblebee laughs. “It’s _sickening._ But - I don’t know. They don’t spend much time with anyone else - not outside of me and Red and ‘Ferno, anyways.”

Optimus gives a worried hum, but Ironhide leans back. “I’m gonna talk t’ him.”

“Ironhide -”

“Not t’ - persuade him t’ give up on Ops, or anythin’, Prime. I ain’ gonna start slag over that. But - ye’d need ta let ‘im know ‘e’s got choices, anyways, right? An’ if ye tell ‘im, ‘e’s gonna spend th’ rest o’ ‘is life tryna analyze tha’ conversation ta figure out wha’ ye prefer, even if ye tell ‘im ye don’ care.” Ironhide raises his hands deferentially. “Let me go ta ‘im, ask ‘im some questions - I’ll pry a bit, an’ see what I can find out.”

“That’s…” Optimus vents lightly. “Reasonable.”

“I’ll keep it light, Prime. Would’a been goin’ over there once Roddy was settled, anyways.”

Bumblebee perks up at that. “Roddy?”

Ironhide gives a snort, at that. “Like ye don’ already know.” Bumblebee gives him the smug smirk of a mech who knows plenty, and is shooting for more, and Ironhide chuckles. “I’ll introduce ye, sure. Meanwhile - ye mind hangin’ here wi’ Bee until Kup can get ‘ere, Optimus? Or d’ ye wan’ an escort t’ yer rooms?”

“I’ll be fine here, if Bumblebee doesn’t mind -” Bumblebee is already out of his chair, and halfway into his, before Optimus can finish his sentence. “Well, then.”

“Oh, no - I want to hear _everything._ ” Bumblebee gives Ironhide a teasing grin as he rises from his seat. “Ironhide? With a _youngling? Adorable._ ”

“ _Incredibly._ ” Optimus’ field is lighter, as Ironhide steps away, and his voice has just an edge of teasing. “I have a _whole file_ of recordings of him getting slept on - here -”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mirage opens the door almost the moment Ironhide knocks on it - pulling him into a delighted hug. “Ironhide! Sorry - sorry - it’s just -” Ironhide doesn’t let him pull away, though, and after a moment, the young noble gives in, wrapping his arms back around the larger mech’s waist. “Primus - I missed you!”

“Missed ye too, kid. Hound ‘round?” Mirage shakes his helm. 

“Out in the gardens - he’s been helping them prepare for the rains -”

Ironhide hugs him just a moment longer, before stepping back, and following as Mirage ushers him inside. He waves off the cube that Mirage tries to offer him - “Nah, kid. Fuelled on th’ train.”

“Was it a good trip?” Mirage says, settling down on the couch next to his. “I mean - you must have been busy, Nyon has been the talk of the palace for orns -”

“It weren’ too bad,” Ironhide agrees. “Lots t’ do, but th’ city was pleasant enough ‘tween all th’ slag - ye’ll probably get t’ go there, at some point, t’ represent th’ nobles an’ all, honestly. But I here ye had yer own excitement, ‘round here?”

Mirage hesitates, just for a moment. “Oh.”

“How’d ye wind up workin’ fer Legend, kid?” Ironhide lets himself relax back into the chair, keeping his pose casual as he watches the younger mech shift uncomfortably.

“He… needed some help. Nothing serious.” Mirage glances away, cagey. “He asked, and I -”

He trails off.

“Did ye enjoy it?”

The look he gets from Mirage is wide-opticked - it’s obvious that that’s not what the younger mech was expecting him to say at all. “What?”

“Did ye like th’ work?” Ironhide waves a hand. “Optimus wanted t’ know if ye wanted ta keep at it - ye don’ hafta, if ye don’, but he ain’ gonna get in yer way if ye do.”

“It’s been… satisfying.” Mirage hesitates. “I was - observing mechs, mostly. Retrieving image captures of some documents that a mech was storing on flimsy.” Mirage optics glint, almost eager, as he describes it. “It was - not fun, exactly. Challenging, I guess? But - I liked it.”

“I’m glad.” Ironhide chuckles. “Got a good gift fer it, too. Optimus wants Bee t’ take over yer training, if ye want t’ continue wit’ Ops.”

“Really?” Mirage perks up a little at that.

“He’s a fraggin’ expert a’ gettin’ where mechs don’ wan’ ‘im ta go.” Ironhide snorts in amusement. “All o’ his little mechs are - ain’ a buildin’ been made tha’ they can’t get inta, given a couple’a joors. They’ll train ye up proper.”

“You and him are friends, then?” The question is curious. “He said you knew each other pretty well.”

“Well - Bee an’ I go way back. ‘Fore ‘e was Ops, even. Can’t think o’ many mechs I trust more.” Ironhide chuckles. “‘Sides - mechs ain’ lyin’ when they tell ye ‘bout minibot loyalty. He an’ his crew’re solid mechs.”

“They’ve been… kind. Patient with me.” Mirage brightens, just a little.

“ _An’_ they’ll have ye workin’ closer wi’ Red - he an’ ‘em get on like a shuttle on fire, most’a th’ time.”

“That would be nice.” There’s a pause. “I’d be spending more time at the palace, too, if I kept working with them.”

“Prob’ly.” Ironhide considers that, for a moment - the flicker of satisfaction at the thought. “D’ye want t’? I know ye don’ have half as much space ‘round here…”

“I don’t mind that.” Mirage gives a slight smile. “It’s nice to have mechs to talk to. Living at the Tower… it was lonely.”

“Ye must’ve had plenty ta do, though,” Ironhide asks, curiously. “I mean - don’ ye nobles spend all yer time huntin’ turbofoxes an’ goin’ ta shows an’ slag?”

Mirage hesitates. “It’s… not that.” He’s quiet for a klik. “I - I know _why_ we haven’t revealed our bonding publicly. And - I don’t want to put Hound in danger, but…”

He falls silent again, and Ironhide lets a hand rest on his knee, pushing comfort into his field. Finally, he vents. 

“We waited so long, wanting to be together. And now we are, and it’s - it’s wonderful, and perfect, and all I want is to be able to - to tell mechs, to kiss him, to let everyone know how much he means to me, and I _can’t._ ” He looks up at Ironhide, meeting his optics. “We’d go to parties, or on hunts, and everyone would treat him like - like a servant, not like the most important thing in my life -”

It’s the sappiest thing Ironhide’s ever heard, and only the complete earnestness in Mirage’s field keeps him from laughing aloud. 

“Primus, kid.” He sighs instead. “But - ain’ like there wasn’ mechs at yer Tower -”

Mirage shakes his helm. “The servants?” Ironhide almost bristles, but Mirage’s tone isn’t derisive. “They don’t want to be _friends_ with a Lord, Ironhide. Even Hound’s noticed that he’s being given a wider berth, now that he’s spending more time in my close company.”

“The guards?” Ironhide offers, just for completeness.

“They’re… friendly enough.” Mirage pauses. “I didn’t think they’d want me becoming too familiar - with the spying, and everything.”

“They - Primus, mech, did you _really_ think they were there ta spy on ye? _That_ bunch?” Ironhide chuckles. “Bunch’a younglings - talented mechs, don’ get me wrong, but they ain’ any kinda Ops, kid. They’re there ta make sure nomech notices ye don’ have an heir an’ cuts yer cables ta keep it that way.”

“Oh.” The look Mirage gives him is wide-opticked, and Ironhide grins.

“Didn’ think o’ tha, huh?” He rubs Mirage’s knee gently, then leans back. “We trust ye, ‘raj. _Prime_ trusts ye. But there’s plenty o’ mechs that’d use that ‘gainst ‘im, if they could - an’ it’s Prime’s job ta keep ye safe from tha’. He swore ta, ‘member?”

“That… makes sense.” Mirage hesitates. “I… thought you might be angry.”

Ironhide hesitates. “Angry?”

“A couple of mechs said that - said you hated Ops. And opsmecha.” 

“Oh.” Ironhide knows well - all too well, really - how most of Ops looks at the Prime’sguard, and at him. There’s a rivalry there, one that predates him, predates Legend - a deep-seated distrust between assassins, and the mechs employed to catch and kill them. Still…

“C’mere, kid.” He pats his thigh, and Mirage only hesitates, a moment before rising to settle into the couch at his side. Ironhide wraps an arm over his shoulder, drawing him near.

This close, it’s easy to feel the disturbance in Mirage’s field - faint, a constant, low-level twang rather than anything more acute, like an ache across his spark. Ironhide presses comfort into his own field, and feels Mirage relax against him, his own field flickering out fondly in response.

Ironhide sits like that for more than a klik - doing nothing but petting Mirage’s shoulder gently, soothing his field as he arranges his thoughts. Mirage doesn’t seem to mind - by the time Ironhide has decided what to say, he’s limp and comfortable, draped against Ironhide, engine purring softly.

“I’m glad ye’ve got somethin’ ye enjoy, kid.” He offers, finally. “Me an’ Ops - well, we’ve ‘ad our differences, an’ no one’s gonna tell ye otherwise - but they’re a useful bunch, an’ good an’ loyal mechs, fer th’ most part. I don’ like th’ work they do, but - Pit, I don’ like tha’ it’s gotta be done, an’ I ain’ gonna hold it ‘gainst mosta them tha’ they do bad things ta bad mechs.”

“That’s what Bumblebee said.” Mirage tucks his helm a little closer to Ironhide, giving a quiet, fond purr. “But - well. Some of the others…”

“I ain’ ever gonna hurt ye, kid.” Ironhide rubs a soft circle against his neck. “Not fer bein’ an Op - swear it to ye.”

“I - I didn’t think you would.” Mirage sounds almost surprised that he’d suggest it. “Just - I don’t want to… I don’t know. Disappoint you.”

“Ye ain’ gotta worry ‘bout tha’.” Ironhide gives him a grin. “Yer gonna be brilliant, kid. I jus’ want t’ know tha’ ye’ll be happy, too.” 

Mirage gives him a shy smile back. “I think I will.”

“Then ‘s all good ‘tween us, ‘raj. An’ - I’m happy ye’ve got somethin’ that makes ye happy.” Ironhide chuckles. “Jus’ don’ go gettin’ yerself caught.”

“I won’t.” But Mirage’s field is easy and open, at last, and his smile widens, just a bit. “But - enough about me. How was Nyon, really?”

“It was bad, kid. A mess all over.” Ironhide pats Mirage’s back. “We’ll get it cleaned up, mind. Can’t tell ye much more than that - I ain’ sure how ye’ve been clearanced. Bee’ll have heard all th’ good gossip by t’morrow, anyways - ‘e always does. Ye can come by next cycle an’ meet my new youngling, if ye wan’ -”

The choking sound Mirage makes is worth the dramatic reveal.

“A _youngling -_ ” Mirage gives him a wide-opticked look of surprise. “ _How?_ ”

“Well, turns out tha’ if ye fling a little mech through a wall, mechs start ‘spectin’ ye ta take some kinda responsibility fer th’ little slagger.” That gets him a chirp of indignant curiosity, and Ironhide laughs. “Nah - he’s a cute kid, ye’ll like ‘im. So, I’m in Nyon, keepin’ an optic on Optimus, o’ course, an’ I start ta feel this sort o’ tuggin -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HNG this chapter. The bit with Bee and Optimus is one of my favorite things I've ever written. Everything else is... hng. I don't feel like I properly got across the severity of Legend's actions - intentionally ignoring Optimus' command to fuck with Ironhide is a Big Deal, lol. And he's had a track record of pushing the boundaries of his authority...
> 
> To be fair, though - if Optimus hadn't just come from dealing with another, much more significant disobedience by the helm of Ops in Nyon, he'd probably have let it slide. Just - within that context, it's not something he can ignore - he's spent the last several vorns trying to clamp down on dissenters and re-establish control in Nyon, so he's not willing to come home and let things fester. 
> 
> Ops commander... it's a rough, necessary job. Not the sort you take without knowing the stakes - almost all Ops commanders die by a subordinate's hands; they're not usually put into positions of physical risk because of the value of the information they possess. Mirage is a bit of a rarity in that - he's got so few mechs that he's still very much an agent in addition to a spymaster... But Legend for sure knew that he would one day be killed by his replacement - after all, he cut his own predecessor's cables in much the same way. It's Ops culture, more than anything a Prime commands - even if Optimus explicitly said he wanted Legend spared, he'd be fairly promptly sent on a mission with a teammate who wasn't supposed to bring back anything except a processor to be destroyed and confirmation of a kill.
> 
> That doesn't mean that they all lie down for it, though! Some do - Elita's predecessor was badly damaged to the point where he could no longer serve, and they sat together and had a lovely talk while he drank a cube of energon that he knew she had poisoned. Legend's predecessor was aware that he had fallen out of favor, but not that he was being removed as Ops commander - Legend got to him while he was preparing to flee, before the decision was made public. Bee, if he had had to, was planning to have the rest of Ops keep Legend penned in his office and then snipe him from inside a vent, because despite being a very good operative, he's not really much of a match for a full-sized mech in a fight. It's a very personal moment between the two agents, in a lot of ways - the culmination of a lifetime of duty, and the end of an era and beginning of a new age.
> 
> Of course, Optimus would never _knowingly_ sign Legend up for a throat-slitting just because they don't get on, LOL. So Bee, who to his credit is being honest with his Prime, has just signed him up for another helmache, because there are only maybe 10 Ops helms on Cybertron, and replacing or moving them is a HUGE pita. They generally become quite entrenched - they know their agents and their territory, and don't _want_ to move. Nor would their agents be as confident with a new commander - there's a lot of trust between operative and commander that isn't easily transferred just because the Prime commands it... and, of course, most Ops helms are grooming mechs specifically for the position, which breeds resentment if they're passed over. It's a delicate balance - Ops tend to be strong personalities who don't trust outside interference, and while they of course bend to the will of the Prime, that doesn't stop efficiency from suffering.
> 
> Meanwhile, Mirage is on his road to being an agent! It'll be a few hundred vorns before Hound joins him - around ten centivorns before he takes over as helm of Ops, if my timeline is correct? So around fifteen until present day in CIC. Next chapter will be a few snippets from that millennia - Hound joining, Bee training him, some mission stuff, some Ironhide stuff - then after that, taking over as Ops helm, then a few more snippets, and then the scene from The Talk and we're back in modern day! This story wound up a lot longer than I expected, LOL... And it's been slower going, but oh well, it's fun!
> 
> This chapter, needless to say, is gonna get beaten heavily with the editing stick at some point, so don't be too hard on it :D But I'd love to hear what you think! It took a lot of fiddling, LOL... Really one of those chapters where I just had to finally pony up and post it so I could move on.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is five roughly thousand-word drabbles, cut across around five centivorns of Mirage's life. There's a lot that doesn't go on here, but they're in chronological order - the only one with a specific set time of occurrence is Hound's talk with Ironhide, which occurred roughly two centivorns after last chapter.

::Hey, ‘Hide - who’ve you got training the kid?::

The ping surprises Ironhide - he pauses where he’s about to flop down on Optimus’ sofa, taking a moment to register that it’s Aileron who’s commed him. ::What?::

::Roddy - it’s not you who’s training him, right? I’ve never seen you handling anything smaller than an axe.:: Aileron pauses. ::He’s not bad - not sure who he’s gonna be able to take, little bitty knives like that, but at least he’s fast.::

:: _Hot Rod_ has - _what?_ :: He glances at Optimus, who’s watching him curiously. ::What’re you talking ‘bout -::

Aileron is silent, for a moment. ::I mean, he didn’t learn that out of a book, ‘Hide.:: He comms a brief - very brief - vidfile - Hot Rod, standing alone in a quiet little corner of the field. He’s got a dagger in one hand, a long knife in the other, working back and forth, step by step, with a look of deep concentration on his face. ::You want me to get them away from him?::

::Nah - nah.:: Ironhide hesitates - but Hot Rod doesn’t _look_ like he’s going to frag up badly enough to do himself any serious damage. ::One klik -::

He glances back up at Optimus, who’s expression is growing more concerned. “Is everything alright?” The Prime rises to his pedes, and Ironhide shrugs. 

“Pro’bly. Somemech’s bin teachin’ Roddy ta fight - thought I’d go take a poke ‘round, if it were alright wi’ you. Jus’ a quick nip ov’r ta th’ practice fields.”

“Of course.” Optimus archs his back in a quick stretch of cables. “Would you mind company, or…?”

“Ye know Roddy’ll be thrilled ta see ye.” Ironhide grins. ::I’m headin’ ov’r, Aile - an’ th’ Prime’s invited ‘imself along, so tell th’ rest o’ th’ mechs hangin’ ‘round t’ get their dumbaft incom’tence outta th’ way now an’ look smart.::

That gets him back a laugh, and the commlink closes as Optimus follows him back out into the hall.

\---

“He really _isn’t_ bad, ‘s the thing.” Ironhide considers Hot Rod wish a grin - and a fondness that he can tell from Aileron’s grin he hasn’t managed to keep off his faceplates. The youngling is caught up in his back and forth, and hasn’t even noticed them - thrusting and spacing, back and forth across his little corner of the yard. “I mean, it’s a damn fool weapon, but his feet’re quick ‘nuff fer it, an’ at ‘is size, he ain’ gonna be able ta do much damage wi’ anythin’ -”

“I can’t think of who’d _use_ a sword like that, is the thing.” Aileron, besides him, shrugs. “It’s none of our mechs, that’s for sure -”

“It’s a fencing edge,” Optimus offers. “A noble’s weapon. For dueling - I don’t know if anyone _fights_ with them -”

“Who th’ slag’s been givin' th’ kid a fraggin’ _noblemech’s_ -”

“Oh - um…” The voice behind them is reserved, but it’s enough to make Aileron jump - Ironhide just chuckles, reaching out to tug Mirage into a fond half-hug before letting the blue mech straighten himself out. 

“Hey, kid.” He grins over at the younger mech, holding a finger to his lips for quiet. “Somemech’s gone an’ given Roddy a little lordlin’s sword - ye heard anymech mention anything ‘bout teachin’ ‘im ta fight?”

Mirage is silent for a moment - then resets his optics, gaze narrowing suspiciously. “Ironhide.”

“Ye?”

“Who on _Cybertron_ might’ve given Hot Rod a lord’s sword to practice with?”

“I dunno.” Ironhide shrugs. “Not - ye’ve never seen Shocker mincin’ round like that, Optimus?”

Optimus gives an undignified snort that echoes around the training field like an engine backfire, and everyone - Hot Rod included - spins to face him.

“Th’ slag, mech -” Ironhide begins, but he’s interrupted by a delighted shout. 

“Optimus! ‘Hide!” Before he can react, Hot Rod barrels into him, and Ironhide ducks, just a little, so that the youngling can scramble up to his shoulders, pedes scrabbling for traction against his plating. “Mirage gave me a sword!”

“Ow - slag, kid, ‘e sure did, yer pokin’ -” It takes a little wrestling, but Ironhide manages to get the little frame under his arm and the sword out of his side after a klik, Hot Rod grinning delightedly as he dangles and thrusts the sword upward.

“Look at it - it’s _so cool!_ ”

“It’s a very nice sword,” Ironhide agrees with a chuckle, Optimus nodding along. “Try not ta stab me wi’ it too much, kid!”

“Point low, Hot Rod,” Mirage says commandingly, and, to Ironhide’s surprise, Hot Rod obeys, dropping the tip of the blade awkwardly. “How were you doing?”

“I think I’ve got it - one sec -” The sword clatters to the ground - Mirage winces, just slightly - but it frees Hot Rod to wiggle out of Ironhide’s grasp with a grin, tucking himself into a neat roll and springing to his pedes blade in hand. “Ha! Huah! Hah!”

He steps back into his previous motions, movements tidy and footwork steady as he swings his way between them. Then he turns, smile brilliant as he grins up at Mirage. “How was that?”

“Give me another twenty sets, so I can see how consistent you’ve gotten, and I’ll teach you the next form,” offers the blue mech with a smile. “Over there - give us a little space to talk?”

“Okay -” and he might say something else, but it’s lost in the scramble as he crosses the training yard with a wide sweep of the sword, leaping wildly into the air with a laugh. “Hyah!”

“Ye know how ta duel, then?” Ironhide asks, as Aileron, his curiosity sated, wanders off.

“Of course.” Mirage gives a soft snort, waving at Hot Rod. “That’s my old training sword he’s using - Hound picked it up for me last time he visited the tower.

“He ain’ bad - not sure who he’s gonna slag like tha’, but…” Ironhide trails off with a grin at the scandalized look that crosses Mirage’s features.

“It’s not for - that’s a _dueling style!_ ” Mirage protests. “I wouldn’t teach a youngling to fight -”

“I would, but I figur’ if I strap one’a my cannons ta him he’d go further th’ wrong way than th’ round’d go in th’ right one.” That gets him a laugh, at least.

“Next upgrade, maybe.” Mirage shrugs. “I just thought - living at court, he’ll need some way to defend his honor. Better to learn now than have his first duel be the first time he puts his hand on a sword.”

That gets a chuckle from Optimus. “I’d like to meet the mech who decides to challenge _’Hide’s_ youngling…”

“Tha’s how ye learned, then?” Ironhide asks, curious. He’s worked with plenty of nobles, in the Prime’sguard and the army, but dueling is less a fighting style than an art - and, like the other noble arts, it’s designed to be opaque to commoners. “When ye were a younglin’?”

Mirage glances away, field going almost still, but there’s a flicker of grief that escapes to lick across it. “Phantasm taught me, when I was - well, a bit younger than him, but… It’s traditional, among nobles. The sire teaches the oldest heir to duel, and they teach their brothers - I thought it would be fitting -” He hesitates. “I’m sorry - I should have thought to ask -”

 _Oh._ Ironhide can see Optimus’ optics widen at the same moment he realizes - and reaches out, gently, to pull Mirage close. “‘E’s yer brother, kid - ‘s long as ye don’ let ‘im offline anymech, teach ‘im what ye wan’.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I killed a mech.”

The words seem to stumble off of Mirage’s tongue the same way Mirage stumbles into Ironhide’s suite, Hound close and concerned at his side. Ironhide catches him by the arm, guides him towards the couches - when he sits, Mirage burrows into his side.

The noble’s whole field is curdled with distress - Hound’s field is more balanced, but it’s the forced sort of smoothness that Ironhide has felt all too often on young soldiers comforting their companions, hiding their own upset. He pulls the green mech down on his other side, putting his own field between them, and pressing comfort out into it - wrapping an arm around Hound as he does, and running a soothing hand down Mirage’s back.

“Yer first?” he asks, gently, and Mirage, miserable, nods.

“He would have killed him.” Hound’s voice sounds like he’s telling himself, telling _Mirage_ , that as much as he’s telling Ironhide. “There wasn’t any _choice_ -”

“It was -” Mirage chokes on the word - “ _awful_.”

“It gets easier,” Ironhide assures him. “Sh, sh - it’s okay…”

It takes kliks - almost a breem - before either of them is fit to say anything else, but he doesn’t push - just alternates gentle strokes and calm, steady words, his field warm and fond and stable as their own latch on and begin to settle. Hound is the first to find his words.

“He was - Bee had him looking for some files in one of the Senator’s apartments - but this big mech came in, one of the guards, and -”

He trails off with a shudder.

Ironhide considers that - it explains where Bumblebee is, why he isn’t taking care of Mirage and Hound himself, if there’s been a murder in a Senator’s rooms - but Mirage speaks up softly before he can say anything. 

“I’m - I’m sorry, we didn’t know where else to go.”

“Primus, kid.” Ironhide rubs at the smaller mech’s neck gently. “‘S alright. You know yer always welcome.”

“Can you -” Hound shifts under his arm, and Ironhide glances over. “His shoulder - can you take a look at it? The mech was twisting his arm -”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Mirage protests, but Ironhide can feel the discomfort in the tight way the arm is held to his side, now that Hound has pointed it out.

“None o’ that, mech. Let me get a look a’ ye.” He pulls a pillow off the couch, and gently helps Mirage down until he’s seated at his pedes, where it’s easier to reach his shoulder. Hound, still curled at his side, reaches down to wrap his fingers around Mirage’s as Ironhide gently probes the injury. “Yeah, bit o’ damage. Nothin’ I can’t fix up ‘ere.”

He pauses, for a moment, unsubspacing his repair kit and giving a quick examination of the rest of the arm - a few dents, nothing serious - before speaking again. “So, ‘e grabbed ye, an’...” 

“He had a gun. He saw what I - what I was looking through -”

“He was going to shoot him.” Hound sounds confident - shaken, badly, but confident - and Ironhide remembers the first time he and Chromia were separated on a battlefield after their bonding - laying in medical, one arm barely attached to his frame, fuel pump removed entirely, watching through her optics as a wave of Insecticons threatened her position - and the chilling, gripping _terror_ of knowing there was nothing he could do to protect her. He can see the same distress in Hound’s optics. “He was going to shoot ‘Raj, so I -”

He trails off, but Ironhide has the shape of it, now. “Oh. Ye helped ‘im do it?”

“I couldn’t -” Mirage starts - “I was looking him right in the optics, and I had my knife, but I couldn’t -”

“Just like gutting a turbofox,” Hound says, softly. “It even sounded the same.”

“Primus.” Ironhide carefully resets the out-of place gears, taking the chance to organize his next words. “It’s a - rough life. Ops, I mean.”

“Or I’m just -” Mirage’s engine gives a soft hiccup. “A coward. You’ve killed mechs before -”

“I have.” Ironhide interrupts him ruthlessly. “Dozens an’ dozens o’ ‘em. Mowed em down ‘cross a battlefield, ordered artil’ry strikes ta blast ‘em inta th’ crust, torn ‘em in half up close, chopped off their helms - it gets easier.” He pauses, giving the words a chance to sink in. “I emptied my tanks, after th’ first battle I ever killed a mech in. This was - ‘fore th’ war, I had just joined th’ guard an’ finished trainin’ - bunch o’ miners thought they’d take a shot a’ th’ Prime. Sentinel,” he clarifies, when Mirage looks up at him wide opticked, “so they had a reason. An’ we slagged ‘em all, an’ they were rough mechs but they wasn’ fighters, an’ I had recharge fluxes fer - Primus, vorns.”

“The look in their optics -” Mirage starts, voice trembling, questioning -

“When they realize ye’ve - yeah, mech. I kin still see it now.”

“Oh.” It’s a soft, soft noise.

“Ye lived, an’ ‘e died. A’ some point, tha’s what ye have ta make o’ it. It’ll break ye, otherwise.” Ironhide shifts in his seat. “It’s life, servin’ th’ Prime. Army, ‘guard, Ops - mechs live an’ die an’ it goes on. Give it time, kid - both’a ye. It gets easier ta take.”

Mirage gives a soft, haggard laugh at that. “I - I hope so.” His engine coughs again - not a healthy sound, but it’s not grinding, so Ironhide makes a note to mention it to Bumblebee and ignores it. “Can we… just until Bumblebee gets back -”

“O’ course, kids.” Ironhide shifts again. “Both’a ye - take as long as ye need.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ironhide is, he’ll admit, surprised when it’s Hound, alone, who knocks on his door.

“Um - hello, sir -” The green mech hesitates - Ironhide’s never gotten as close to him as he is to Mirage. “I was wondering if we could talk - I could use some… um, advice?”

“‘Course, kid. My door’s always open.” He gestures the smaller mech inside, waving him over to the couches. “Can I get ye a cube?”

“Oh - that’d be… yeah, thank you.” Hound shifts uneasily as he settles onto the couch. “Cadmium, if you have it?”

“Think I got some, somewhere. Gimme a klik.” He takes his time shuffling through his collection of additives - gives Hound a chance to put his thoughts in order. “Nah, I kin pick some up next time I’m orderin’ slag, though. Zinc good?”

“Yeah, zinc’s fine.” There’s a pause as Ironhide mixes the drink, and offers it to him. “Oh - thanks.”

“No trouble, kid.” Ironhide settles onto the couch opposite with his own cube, and takes a long draught - long enough for Hound to speak, if he’s got the courage to start the conversation. Evidently not - after another few moments, Ironhide sets his cube aside. “What kin I do fer ye, Hound?”

“I was thinking of joining Ops.” Hound says it all in one rush - like he needs to get the idea out of him, into the air between them. His next words are a little more measured. “I mean - well, yeah. I was thinking of joining Ops.”

“Ops, huh?” Ironhide keeps his field carefully steady, not giving away his own thoughts on the matter. “Ye got any kind o’ sneakin’? ‘Cause Ops is picky - they ain’ gonna take ye jus’ ‘cause ye bring it up ta them.”

“I’m a tracker.” Hound hesitates. “So was my sire - if a mech has been through an area, I can follow him. It’s just - hard to explain, really. My family was never sure if it was a skill, or a frame ability, or sigma-gifted -”

“Tha’s useful,” Ironhide agrees. “If yer jus’ lookin’ fer a job ta do, I might be able t’ find a place fer ye…”

“I want to be - with Mirage.” Hound glances down at his cube, takes a sip as he figures out what to say, and Ironhide waits, patient, not pushing. “After - Primus, with that mech in the room with him - I thought he was going to _die -_ ”

“An’ you joinin’ Ops is gonna help?”

“At least he’d have someone there for him!” It seems to burst out of Hound - he stares up at Ironhide, optics wide. “I mean, Bee and the rest - they’re great, but it should be _me -_ ”

He falls silent, as if he’s said something wrong, but Ironhide nods approvingly. “Yeah, kid - I know how it is.”

“I don’t know how you stand it.” Hound vents. “Being so far away from her.”

“Experience.” Ironhide shrugs. “An’ trust. An’ - I think it helps tha’ I knew Chromi’ as a soldier a long time ‘fore I knew her as my ‘junx - knew she wouldn’ get slagged fer no reason. Fer me - well, ‘junxing was always a matter o’ was it worth more ta me ta die wi’ her than live wi’out. Ye could ask ‘im ta quit - Prime was real clear ‘bout keepin’ tha’ an option fer ye.”

Hound slumps a little, shakes his helm. “I couldn’t do that. He loves the work - he’s so much happier than he ever was with… well, _before._ ”

“Hmpf.” Ironhide hums a little, settling deeper into his seat. “So - you join Ops, and…?”

“I asked Bumblebee.” Hound hesitates. “Asked him not to mention it to Mirage, but…”

“Kind’o a lost cause, yeah. Ye’ll get used ta tha’.” 

“Yeah. But anyways… he says that he was thinking about training Mirage as a sniper. And Perceptor - he was really insistent that I should emphasis that if I talk to you for some reason - _Perceptor_ is working on some kind of inbuilt holoemitter? So if I wanted, he could put me forward as a candidate for that, and we could maybe work as a team.”

“Ye trackin’ and settin’ up shots, an’ ‘im takin’ em?” Ironhide considers it, for a klik. “It’d be an interestin’ set o’ skills fer th’ two a ye, fer certain. An’ Bee ain’ a bad mech ta work fer.” He pauses. “Ye gonna be alright killin’ mechs, kid? Tha’ ain’ a line o’ work tha’s gonna keep yer hands clean fer long, even if ‘Raj is pullin’ th’ trigger.”

“I can live with that, I think.” Hound takes another sip of his fuel. “I couldn’t live without him.”

“Then there’s yer answer, in th’ end.” And it tastes bitter on his tongue as he says it - but Bumblebee will keep an optic on them, and in the end, it’s not so unreasonable a thing for Hound to want, even if the thought of Ops clawing in another young mech stings. “It ain’ a bad life, workin’ fer the Prime.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumblebee’s voice is quiet, as he approaches the berth.

“How is he?”

“Still hasn’ come out o’ ‘charge. Ipecac says tha’s good, though - means he ain’ in any pain, a’ least. An’ they got t’ him in time - ‘e should recover fine.” Bumblebee already knows, of course - has the same medical accesses Ironhide does - but it helps, a little, to say it. “Primus.”

“We caught the mech that slipped him the poison.” Bumblebee offers. “A guard - one of the Lord’s, not one of ours. He’s already turned in the mechs who hired him - it’ll be dealt with.”

“Any chance yer namin’ names?” Ironhide offers, not expecting anything.

Bumblebee shakes his helm almost apologetically. “Legend said not to - this is Ops business, now.”

“Hmph.” Ironhide huffs - there’s no hiding how he feels about _that_ , but then, Bumblebee _knows him_ , no doubt knows _exactly_ his thoughts on the matter.

“It _will_ be taken care of, Ironhide.” There’s a touch of dark promise to the words. “Legend - I know you and he don’t get along, but… he’s an aft, but he values his mechs. He won’t let this go - ‘Raj is one of us.”

“Hmph,” Ironhide offers again, but he glances away in deference to that - whatever his own grudge with the spymaster, his treatment of his agents has never been the issue. “I know he will, Bee. I know ye will. It’s just…” He clenches his free hand, almost involuntarily, into a fist. “I’d rather be out there, ye know?”

“Believe me, I do.” Bumblebee finally approaches the medberth - brushes his fingers across Mirage’s still frame, the blue almost dusky. His chest is wrenched open - not cleanly. There are tears in the metal where Ironhide had had to rip it open, and the hole where his fuel tank - crushed in the removal - was is empty and gaping, but the play of light from his spark is strong and steady, and the monitors are quiet. Still, Bumblebee doesn’t manage to hide his horrified hiss at the injuries. “I saw the surveillance, but…”

“Didn’ know what was goin’ on, wi’ him staggerin’ like tha’.” Ironhide shrugs. “I dunno wha’ Ops protocols are, but -”

“Safer to remove the tank, yeah.” Bumblebee’s fingers catch on the twisted metal, and he nods. “And you got to it quick.”

“Shoulda’ been quicker.” Not that it would have been practical, but… “Had t’ secure Optimus, first - but we got lucky. If he’d drunk a little faster, or th’ poison’d been a little slower…”

He doesn’t have to spell it out - he can see it in the way Bumblebee’s frame tightens, just a fraction, fingers tracing a line across the hole in Mirage’s chest.

“A diversionary tank,” Bumblebee says, after a klik. “Should be _just_ able to fit one without compromising his main reserve. Something small, easily flushed.”

It’s a good idea - but that isn’t really that comforting. “I hate thinkin’ ‘bout - well, this.” He gestures to Mirage. “Again.”

“It…” Bumblebee pauses, gaze sympathetic. “Probably will happen. Not because he’s Ops - without an heir, he’s in such a vulnerable position already…”

"An’ plenty o’ mech’s’d love ta see one’a th’ Prime’s strongest supporters dead.” Ironhide nods. “I know. It’s jus’ -” he lowers his gaze, snorts a little laugh. “Primus, he’s jus’ so young.”

“Mm.” Bumblebee nods. “They both are. Shouldn’t be more than a few joor before Hound gets back - I had Seaspray and ‘comber get him on a shuttle as soon as we were sure ‘raj would stabilize.”

“Good. They shouldn’ be apart, fer somethin’ like this.” Not that the physical distance should matter, but… it does. Bumblebee nods again, and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“Once he shows up… get some recharge, ‘hide. Optimus is in good hands with Kup. Mirage will be fine.”

“I -” Ironhide hesitates, then ducks his helm, fingers wrapping a little tighter around the limp hand in his. “Yeah, kid. I will.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“‘Hide.” Mirage’s voice, very quiet, from right beside him isn’t enough to make Ironhide jump - fortunate, considering his next soft words. “Don’t move - don’t act suspicious. Lean over to Optimus and tell him to follow you - don’t act like you’ve noticed anything.”

Ironhide doesn’t confirm - he waits until Optimus has finished saying… _something_... to the Senator’s conjunx he’s speaking to, then leans in to murmur in his audial. “Ops wants us moving.”

Optimus doesn’t say anything - just gives a discrete nod.

Ironhide follows, obediently, when Mirage’s hand brushes gently against his elbow - the blue mech taking advantage of the respectful distance that the Prime and his ‘guard are afforded to avoid the throngs of frames around them. He lets his hand drop, and after a moment, the pressure disappears - then Mirage’s finger’s brush against his palm in slow but legible ‘hand.

||Red suspect interfered comm.|| It’s worrying - Ironhide scans the crowd, keeping his posture carefully unconcerned. ||Hound with Legend, Bumblebee. Updating as necessary. On roof - looking with optics.||

That takes a moment longer to parse - a mech gets a little too close, and Ironhide thrums his engine, and takes advantage of the distraction to flick his own fingers in acknowledgement.

Mirage trails them, invisible, silent, as they head towards the wall - and then brushes Ironhide’s palm again. ||Right second door friendly. Left wall bad. Go to garden maybe? Then under roof path.||

Ironhide lets his own hand rest on Optimus’ forearm, for a moment - the taller mech is clearly aware that something is going on, but he’s playing to the crowd, smiling, nodding. “This way, my Lord Prime, if you’re ready?”

“Of course.” Optimus nods again, breathes a few quick apologies, and no one questions that the Prime has a pressing engagement elsewhere as Ironhide steers them both out into the Eastern Gardens.

It’s an _itchingly_ unsecure area - Ironhide scans the rooftops for any sign of Ops, but he doesn’t see anything. Mirage’s fingers drum a quick staticco against his palm - two sets of four, and then two individual taps, and Ironhide keeps it subtle, hiding his glace to ten’joor behind a glance at his Prime. There’s nothing there, and a moment later, Mirage repeats the glyph for ||Hound.||

It’s impressive - it always is - how _subtle_ the green mech’s illusions are - even with the reflected light off the gardens, and Ironhide’s own optical filters, there’s no hint of the other mech’s presence. Ironhide touches his thumb to his pinky, and Mirage signs a few more names - ||Bumblebee, Windcharger, Aileron, Vex.||

It’s a relief to hear that there are a few Prime’sguard with optics on himself and the Prime, and Ironhide relaxes a little when, at the entrance to the loggia, they’re joined by not just one or two, but a full squad of Prime’sguard - and a burly Opsmech that he recognizes, but can’t name. Mirage’s voice issues from nowhere - “Formel?”

That, apparently, _is_ the Opsmech, who gives a rough nod in the direction of the voice. “Any updates, Lieger?”

“Nothing. There’s definitely some kind of comms interference, but Bee still isn’t sure from where - he’s got Blaster and Red on a secure channel trying to sort it out.” 

It’s not great news, but with Red _and_ Blaster involved, the mechs responsible won’t be undetected much longer. “Let’s get th’ Prime to his rooms, an’ lock things down ‘til it’s been resolved.” He gives Optimus the barest glance for confirmation, and is met with a nod - almost an afterthought; Optimus, at least, knows better than to argue.

“Aile, ye take Cleaver an’ Turret an’ go sweep th’ Prime’s rooms - everymech else, form up on -”

“DOWN!” He’s interrupted by a hard shove from his side, and there’s just enough time to reach down, scoop through where Mirage must be to toss the lightly-armored mech between himself and Optimus, and throw both of them to the ground beneath himself as the ballroom on the other side of the courtyard explodes in a ball of fire and shrapnel.

\---

“Ye did good, kid,” he offers from his seat by the door. “Real slaggin’ good. I’m proud o’ ye.”

Mirage, almost completely immobilized by medical overrides on the medberth across from him, gives a slight, sarcastic flick of his fingers. 

“An’ I’m sorry fer landin’ on ye. In my defense, ye’d’ve been slagged jus’ as much by th’ shrapnel, maybe.”

Mirage snorts.

“Bu’ Optimus sends ‘is thanks - ‘e’s gonna be by in a bit, but Ambulon ain’ released ‘im yet, an’ ‘e’s takin’ th’ chance t’ hassle th’ other guards tha’ got hurt while ‘e can.”

::It’s fine, Hide.:: Mirage’s voice is fond. ::Really - I’ll be fine. A couple of warped joints isn’t too bad - that chunk of steel would’ve gone right through me.:: He lets out a gutteral, hacking laugh, though. ::Primus - we’ve got to stop meeting at parties.::

Ironhide reaches out, gently wrapping his fingers around the younger mechs, offering a soft chuckle of his own. ::Fair ‘nuff, kid. Get some rest.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hng so i have been feeling like hot potato fried shit lately, so these are coming to you live and unedited, LOL. I will probably take a brush to them at some point, but they're not really designed to be a cohesive story - more a spattering of snippets to illustrate Mirage's time in Ops pre-delegendification.
> 
> Now - obviously there's a LOT more that could be said on this time period, and I'd _love_ to write it - but since this story is Ironhide's POV, it wouldn't really work... plus, it's not really germain to the origin story we're hearing here, so it'd bog things down. But I'll probably do some more with it in the future - either as a one-shot or as part of a two or three chapter Hound and Mirage story from Mirage's POV. I'm sure I can think of some cool Ops stuff for them to do, LOL.
> 
> So... hm. What to ramble about... So, some people were asking, last chapter, what Roddy and Mirage's relationship was like. Well - hopefully this clears it up! They're both busy mechs, so, especially nowadays, they're not super-close, but they're more than strangers for sure. I don't _think_ they've interacted much - the rec room where Mirage started shit about a tv show, and that one time Mirage got stabbed, but beyond that... not much? IDK - I hadn't planned to have Ironhide and Mirage quite this close, initially, so there's gonna be some first-draft weirdness there I think. 
> 
> But, yeah... Mirage isn't Ironhide's child, at least not formally, and they'd never refer to each other as sire and child, but they're super close. In a species where you have sparked mechs, Vector Sigma-called mechs, commissioned mechs raised by their coworkers... I figure family bonds are probably not so strictly limited. Similarly, Hot Rod and Mirage aren't legally or officially siblings, but they treat each other as such - just, again, separated by age and maturity. By the time of the main CiC plot, I'm thinking Hot Rod is probably House Twisted Glass' secret heir - it's not something that Mirage makes public because it's useful to him to be the sole member of the family, and because it would put Hot Rod in danger, but it's a practical choice that would secure the House...
> 
> And a couple of rough missions for Mirage! He has to kill somemech, and then he gets poisoned... not because he's an Op, just because he's a valuable mech to kill, since his House would dissolve on his death with no known heir, depriving Optimus of that support. Meanwhile, his conjunx is plotting to follow him into spyhood - and Ironhide is being _concerningly supportive_ for a mech who hates Ops, almost like he's a mature adult who puts their happiness above his personal grudges :D
> 
> Anyways - consider this just a snippet to tide you over, because next chapter is REVENGE OF THE RED ALERT: RED ALERT STRIKES BACK :D My boy - an Icon! And after that, oh, we're very close to the end - just two more chapters, and we get to go back to Ratchet's drama! I'm very excited for that...
> 
> Let me know what you think! And thank you all so much for sticking with me through this Mirage-shaped detour - I know I've slowed down a bit, but it's been really nice to work on some side stuff before diving back into the main plot :D


	11. Chapter 11

“Primus,” Optimus vents, heavily, as he finally manages to slip into his quarters. His whole frame sags a little, shoulders drooping - his field, at last, extends, and it’s dense with exhaustion, saturated with it. “Primus.”

Ironhide shuts the door carefully as he follows him into the suite - and over to the couches. He settles in his usual chair as Optimus slumps over a couch.

They sit like that, in placid silence, for a few kliks - until there’s a cautious tapping at the door. Ironhide starts to rise - but Optimus waves him off, rolling off the couch to his pedes. “It’s Bumblebee.”

There’s a relief to his voice that makes Ironhide hesitate, then settle back in his chair as Optimus gets the door. 

“Hey, Prime -” Bumblebee sounds surprised - then makes a choked sort of squeaking noise as Optimus scoops him up off the floor and carries him back to the couch. “Oh -”

He doesn’t try to squirm away, though - doesn’t struggle when Optimus settles him in his lap, arms wrapped tightly around the minibot’s smaller frame, face buried in his shoulder. The Prime’s whole frame is quaking, just faintly - Ironhide has been too polite to point it out, but it’s obvious from the way Bumblebee’s optics dim in sympathy that he’s noticed, too. He runs a hand comfortingly along the bit of Optimus’ arm that he can reach, smaller engine rumbling in a soft purr.

Optimus sits like that for almost a breem, the shake in his shoulders fading to a tremble, his field slowly flattening, his grip not loosening at all. Then, very quietly, he murmurs something, the sound muffled against Bumblebee’s neck.

Bumblebee gives a soft hum, then asks, probing gently, “What was that?”

“M’ sorry.” Optimus pulls back, just a little, glancing away like he’s embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have -”

Bumblebee almost chokes on his laugh. “Optimus -” He catches the larger mech’s hand as he starts to pull away. “No. Here -”

He shuffles, a little, until Optimus is wrapped around him again, then gives a satisfied purr. “Perfect.”

Optimus gives a hollow-sounding chuckle, but doesn’t try to pull away again - lets his helm droom to rest against Bumblebee’s. “You’re too nice to me.”

Bumblebee reaches up awkwardly to pat his face. “You’ve had a rough day.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”  
“I -” Optimus’ voice crackles a little, and he goes quiet, for a klik. “I trusted him. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t think -”

He trails off with a shudder that’s halfway to a sob, and squeezes Bumblebee a little tighter as the minibot lets out a sympathetic croon.

“None of us did,” he offers, after a moment. “I mean - I worked with him for vorn, I never expected - but we’ll figure out what happened.”

“Did ye finish th’ autopsy?” Ironhide asks, voice low.

“We did.” Bumblebee vents. “No evidence of mnemosurgery. Cause of death was spark dispersal after catastrophic chamber breach. Ambulon oversaw the autopsy, with two of your guards and myself as witnesses -” he nods to Ironhide. “I thought it might be better to have Ops hands-off, for this.”

“Probably right,” Ironhide rumbles his agreement. “He’s smelted, then?”

“His frame, yeah.” Bumblebee nods. “His processors were extracted - they’re being held in the Black Box for… examination, if the next helm wants to risk it. I’m the only one who can access them, at this point.” He pauses. “With that said, I’ve already had my mechs start cycling their codes. At this point, we don’t believe Legend has compromised security to an outside actor, but…”

It’s not worth risking, and Ironhide nods. “I’ll jump th’ Prime’sguard to a new cypher, then. Give us a clean slate.”

“Probably not a bad idea.” Bumblebee hums his agreement.

“So… Legend is secure. What about Red Alert?” Optimus asks, after a moment.

“He and Inferno have been sequestered in security.” Bumblebee raises a hand defensively when Optimus opens his mouth to protest. “At his own request, Optimus. Or, well - Inferno’s. Red is handling this about as well as you can expect… you know how he gets when he’s _right._ ”

Ironhide nods, and, after a moment, so does Optimus. The security mech’s glitch will have him spinning every shadow into a new assassin, every thump in the night into an Ops mech seeking vengeance - locking himself in his security suite, more fortified than any other wing of the palace, is _completely_ in character. And, admittedly, not even that unreasonable, for Red Alert.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Optimus offers after a minute. “See if I can help settle him at all.”

“Probably a good idea.” Bumblebee gives a hum of agreement. “I tried to stop by, but… well, he wasn’t interested. You might have more luck.”

“He’ll settle down - ‘Ferno knows what he’s doin’.” Ironhide shrugs. “Wha’ I’m more worried ‘bout a’ this point is somemech else takin’ advantage o’ our distraction ta get their own shots in. I’ve got Optimus on lockdown fer th’ next three cycles, an’ Singularus is willin’ ta take ‘im fer a religious sabbatic’l if we need more than tha’ ta get things secured, but…”

“Ops _should_ be back on it’s pedes by then - at least when it comes to the day to day security of the Prime.” Bumblebee hesitates. “That said - there’s going to be a lot of work to do - orns, probably. Vorns. Something like this… Legend had the expertise to plan it himself, but everymech in Ops is going to need to be reexamined at this point.”

“An’ tha’ ain’ th’ sorta thing ye can do alone.” Ironhide nods. “I kin lend ye some’a my mechs, but…” Ops will bristle, at being investigated, even temporarily, by the Prime’sguard.

“Yeah. And… well, I don’t really have the clearance for that sort of thing.” Bumblebee pauses. “It’s really going to be the job of whoever takes over for Legend.

“So we need an Ops helm.” Optimus nods, then lets out a long, slow vent. “Who are my options, at this point?”

“Limited.” Bumblebee’s own vent is shorter, more forceful. “I’m sorry, Prime - until we finish our investigation, there’s only a handful of mechs I trust in Ops - trust enough for something like that, at least. My mechs, Mirage, Hound. Or at least, I’m willing to vouch for their loyalty.” Bumblebee hesitates, then adds: “You should consider whether you should trust me.”

“Your loyalty is not in doubt, Bumblebee.” Optimus says it firmly, as if he’s stating a universal truth, but Bumblebee shakes his helm.

“The helm of Ops just tried to assassinate you, Optimus. You shouldn’t be so trusting.” He pauses. “I won’t blame you -”

“No.” Optimus cuts him of almost brusquely. “Bumblebee… Legend just tried to kill me. The Lords, the Senate - none of them would have lifted a finger to save me. I don’t _have_ a lot of mechs I can trust - but I trust you.”

There’s an almost pleading edge to his voice - one that Bumblebee very carefully considers, then nods, and ducks his helm. “Thank you, Optimus.”

“Who would you have recommended, an orn ago? If we can narrow the field to one or two candidates, you could prioritize clearing them - leave the spot open with you as temporary helm until -”

Bumblebee shakes his helm.

“I wouldn’t, sir. I mean -” he gives a half-hearted chuckle -“I know I’m assembling my own smelter like this, but… Ops needs leadership right now. Everyone’s on edge - it wouldn’t be the first time a Prime met Ops treachery with a purge.”

“And putting a new helm in place shows that I’m not _that_ incensed.” Optimus nods. “You, then?”

“If that’s what you want, Optimus. You know how I feel about the position.” Bumblebee shrugs. “You know I’ll accept, if I’m the mech you choose. But… I had another recommendation, if you’re willing to hear it.”

“Who?”

“Mirage.” Optimus’ optics brighten in surprise, and even Ironhide leans back heavily - Bumblebee pushes on, though, talking just a little quickly. “I mean, I’m not putting him forwards to - duck the position, or anything - if you want me as helm, I’ll take the job, and I won’t hold it against you. But… he’s a solid choice for the job. Loyal - _proven_ loyal - and he’s talented enough to lead.”

“‘E’s green.” Ironhide doesn’t bother holding back his own opinion on the matter. “Real slaggin’ green, Bee. I don’ like tha’ - Ops needs a strong hand on th’ reins, an’ tha’ takes confidence I ain’ sure ‘raj’s got.” He considers the idea, for a klik, then concedes, “A’ least ye ain’ gonna find a mech less likely ta turn on ye, Optimus.”

“His loyalty…” Optimus mulls that over for a moment. “Mirage is - I’d _trust_ him with the position, Bumblebee, but I can’t help but agree with Ironhide - he’s very junior. He’s very _young_.”

His voice is wistful in a way that both of them recognize - the face of a mech tired of sending young mechs to die. “He’s very young, and it’s very _permanent._ ”

“It is,” Bumblebee concedes with a nod. “It has to be. But - I can train that, teach him what he needs to know. Aquila won’t be expecting the Second’s position, not after missing Legend turning - no one would look twice at me taking her post, and it’d put me in a good position to guide him.”

“I could… work with that.” Optimus hesitates. “I don’t know how that would play with the other helms - I don’t like the idea of the Iaconi helm being looked at as a… puppet-leader. The last thing I need is somemech in one of the outer territories getting the idea that Iacon is poorly-defended -”

Bumblebee snorts a chuckle, at that. “No one will think anything of it, sir. Everymech in Iacon knows we’re close. No one will see anything except Mirage putting a mech he trusts in the position.”

“Mm.” Optimus’ optics go dim as he considers that. It’s almost a breem before he speaks again.

“Let me think about it. I like Mirage.” He says it slowly, as if still seeing how the words taste. “He’s young, but - he’s talented, for a mech his age. He works well with both of you - he’s more agreeable than Legend. Less bloodthirsty.”

Bumblebee shifts, slightly. “That won’t last.” He shrugs, apologetically, when Optimus looks at him. “We’re Ops - we kill mechs. We do a lot of other stuff, too, but…” He shrugs again. “He isn’t cruel. Won’t be, as long as you don’t ask it of him. It’s a balance.”

“Mm…” Optimus shifts, obviously disquieted, but nods. “No. I don’t think he’ll be…” He trails off. “How long will it take to have him recalled to Iacon?”

“Another cycle, maybe. I already ordered him back.” Optimus gives him a surprised look, and Bumblebee gives him - not quite a grin, it’s been too dark a cycle for that, but… “Didn’t say why, but I figured it’d be best to have him on hand if you _did_ say yes.”

“Little schemer,” Ironhide says with a chuckle, and Optimus pats his knee fondly.

“Always. But - no offense, you two - I shouldn’t stay much longer. Everything’s kind of a mess right now, and I’ve got a lot of optics on me…”

“Of course. Give me the cycle to think about it, and...” Optimus trails off, and lets Bumblebee slip to his pedes, a ripple of gratitude tracing his field as the minibot steps away. “Before you go - how _is_ Ops holding up?”

Bumblebee meets his optics silently, for a moment - then lets out a long, heavy vent. “We’ll survive, Optimus. Lots of nervous energy. Mechs are on edge, but…” He tosses one hand in the air. “We’ll survive.”

“I’m glad, Bee. And… thank you.” Optimus goes quiet for a moment. “Good luck.”

“You too, sir,” Bumblebee offers, and this time there is a quick, grinning flash of dentae as he heads towards the door. “Thanks.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sit quietly until Bumblebee is gone.

Ironhide can feel it when Optimus’ field pulls, just slightly, away - can see the other mech’s disquiet in the way he doesn’t meet his optics. He tugs his chair a little closer, reaches out to lay a hand on Optimus’ arms, and Optimus gives him a grateful little glance.

“Mirage, huh?” Ironhide offers, and Optimus gives a drawn-out, heavy vent.

“I don’t like it, not really,” he admits, voice soft - then hesitates. “If I had a better option… but I need Bee where he is. His warren are the Ops I trust most right now, but mechs overlook them - if I make him helm…”

“Ye lose tha’ insight. I ain’ gonna fight ye on tha’...” Ironhide shrugs. “I don’ wanna see ‘im stuck in a job he don’ wan’, either.”

“So you’re going to fight me on Mirage?” Optimus gives a laugh, but it’s dry and thin. “I’m sorry, Ironhide.”

“Don’ be.” Ironhide shifts in his chair. “I ain’ gonna argue wi’ tha’, either.”

Optimus gives him an astonished look. “I thought you’d be…”

“What, angry? If ‘e didn’ like th’ work, ye know I’d fight ‘til th’ Pit ‘gainst puttin' this on ‘im.” Ironhide pauses, and Optimus nods his assent. “Thing is - ‘e does. Both’a them do, even if Hound’s a bit shier ‘bout sayin’ it outright. An’ honestly - I think ‘e’d be headed ta helm, anyways, if ye an’ he both survived tha’ long. I’d rather it be after a good long bit as Bee’s second, but…”

He shrugs, and Optimus nods. “If he says he doesn’t want the position, I won’t force him -”

“Eh - nah. Talk ‘im ‘round, if ye want ‘im, mech.” Ironhide snorts. “Ain’ like he ain’ gonna see th’ same problems wi’ him takin’ th’ post that we do - ‘e’s gonna try ta point ‘em all out same as me an’ Bee.

Optimus is quiet, for a klik. “I thought you’d be angry I was putting him in more danger.”

“‘S a dangerous world, Optimus.”

“No, I mean -” Optimus hesitates. “It’s not just Mirage - not just this, I mean. Ever since Hot Rod -” He trails off with a heavy vent. “I just keep picturing something happening to one of them.”

Oh.

The flickers he’s been seeing beneath the surface resolve, all at once, into something more concrete - a picture that he couldn’t see before revealed. Ironhide shifts, reaches out to lay a hand on his Prime’s knee, and lowers his voice, keeps his words gentle as he speaks a name that, even millennia out, still rarely passes between them.

“Ratchet was wrong ta leave, Optimus.” That gets a jerk, and Optimus opens his mouth to protest, but Ironhide shakes his helm. “He was. Or - na’ fer goin’, but… how he did it? Tha’ was slagged, an’ it weren’t none of your fault. I ain’t gonna leave ye.”

“Drift -” 

“ _Drift_ died a hero, savin’ ‘is Prime, protectin’ th’ mech that dragged his aft outta th’ gutters an’ gave ‘im a chance ta be somethin’ more than a murderous gutterknife.” Ironhide doesn’t blunt his words, and he sees them make impact in the way Optimus’ optics widen, make his vents choke. “ _Drift_ was a good mech, an’ a better Prime’sguard, an’ if ye told ‘im what’d happen, ‘e wouldn’a flinched. But more than tha’ - he owed ye th’ sort o’ debt that kin only be paid fer in blood, an’ ‘e paid it without hesitatin’.”

“He didn’t owe me -”

“Frag yerself.” Ironhide snorts it, lets just a hint of anger touch the words. “He was a guttermech. His life was all ‘e had in th’ world, an’ ye gave it back ta ‘im. Don’ ye fraggin’ _dare_ turn yer back on wha’ that meant t’ ‘im.”

Optimus goes quiet, for a long, long klik. When he speaks, his voice is raw, edged in the hurt of a healed weld cracking open, rusted just beneath the surface. “I would have done it for any mech.” He doesn’t meet Ironhide’s optics. “I didn’t deserve that sort of loyalty.”

“Ye did. Ye do.” Ironhide vents, heavily, and leans back - there’s a faint creak to his plating as he does, and he feels suddenly very, very old. “I might die fer ye, one day.”

Optimus makes a choked, horrified noise, something between protest and terror, optics shooting up to lock gazes with Ironhide’s. The red mech doesn’t react except to shrug.

“I might. Might’a fer Sentinel, but I didn’. Might fer ye - or I might live long ‘nuff ta watch a slagger like Legend put an end ta ye.” He pauses, contemplating that - making a show of contemplating it. “Think I’d rather die, first.”

“Don’t -” Optimus starts, voice pleading, but Ironhide shakes his helm. 

“It’s what I am, mech. Ye think I wouldn’ die happy, knowin’ I’d kept th’ first decent Prime in a hundred millennia alive fer a _slaggin’ klik longer?_ I would trade my spark fer yours in a _sparkbeat_ , Optimus. _Drift_ traded ‘is spark fer yours.” Ironhide lets his engine rumble, just the edge of a threat. “An’, let me tell ye - if I found out one o’ my friends took that sacrifice an’ used it ta stab ye in th’ spark? I’d crawl right back out o’ th’ Pit an’ throttle ‘em myself.”

Optimus is quiet for another klik. “He wasn’t wrong to go. He needed space.”

“He never managed ta shake th’ war, Optimus. Dunno if ‘e ever will.” Ironhide shrugs. “I don’ blame ‘im fer leavin’. I blame ‘im fer leavin’ ye thinkin’ it was yer fault. Ratch’... I think th’ war fragged ‘im up, long ‘fore Drift wandered back inta th’ picture. Think maybe th’ world fragged ‘im up, ‘fore th’ war. Medics ain’ supposed ta sacrifice mechs.”

Optimus is silent at that.

“Ain’ his fault - but I ain’ gonna leave ye like that, Optimus. I’m a soldier - I may not like it, but…” He shrugs. “Think I understand sacrifice better than he did. C’mere.”

He gestures, and Optimus makes a soft, grateful noise - slides off the chair and sinks to sit at Ironhide’s pedes, leaning on his legs, knees pulled almost to his chest. It’s a posture that works better for a librarian than a warframe, but it’s achingly familiar on the Prime, and Ironhide doesn’t comment on it as he strokes Optimus’ helm comfortingly.

“‘Raj… I want ‘im ta be happy, Optimus. But tha’ don’ mean ‘e’s gotta be some sheltered little crystal.” He pauses. “I been slagged dozens o’ times, servin’ th’ Primacy. I wouldn’ trade a klik o’ it. An’ if he does die… there’re things worth dyin’ for.”

Optimus doesn’t say anything to that - leans against him, instead, silent and lost in thought, and Ironhide doesn’t push.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumblebee grins over at Ironhide - well, at both of them, really - as Mirage hesitates, just past the door. 

::I really do appreciate the support, ‘Hide.:: He comms it on a private channel - Optimus doesn’t even seem to notice, optics dim in that way they always are when he’s deep in conversation with the Lord Protector, and Ironhide huffs.

::Dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout, kid.:: 

Bumblebee laughs down the commlink. ::Of course you don’t.:: The grin widens, just a little. ::Like Optimus would’ve gone for ‘Raj without your voice in his audial. He’s going to be great, ‘Hide.::

::Hrrm.:: But Ironhide doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. ::Of course he is. Can’t say it’s what I woulda wanted fer ‘im, but… I really do ‘ppreciate ye lookin’ out fer him, ye know tha, right?::

::Huh?:: Bumblebee gives him a puzzled look, and Ironhide chuckles. 

::Ye an’ yer warren,:: he clarifies. ::Don’ think I don’ know what havin’ th’ lot’a ye ‘round meant ta him, in th’ early days. Yer a good mech, an’ I ‘ppreciate it.::

::Oh.:: Ironhide gets a surprised look, and Bumblebee’s smile softens. ::He’s a good kid, ‘Hide. It was never any trouble.::

::Still.:: He glances at the door, and grins. ::Now if he’ll just find ‘is struts an’ _get in ‘ere_ so Optimus kin fraggin’ _promote ‘im_ -::

But it’s not even a moment later that Mirage does, apparently, find his struts - the door pushes open quietly, and Optimus is resetting his optics and straightening even as Mirage eases himself inside.

He seems surprised to see all three of them - Optimus seated between Bumblebee and Ironhide - and his gaze rests, curiously, on the _fourth_ chair for just a moment before his gaze drops and he strides forwards to cross the room.

“My Lord Prime.” Mirage sinks gracefully to one knee before Optimus, bowing his helm, before raising his gaze to not quite meet the Prime’s optics. “How may I be of service?”

“There has been an… incident, Mirage. The details have not yet been circulated to Ops - they are to be held in strictest confidence until Ironhide has completed his investigation.” Mirage’s gaze flickers, just briefly, to Ironhide, curiosity obvious, but he nods his understanding. 

“Of course, my Lord Prime. Neither Hound nor I will speak to anymech.” 

Optimus gives a heavy vent. “Two cycles ago, Legend made an attempt on my life.”

Mirage’s reaction is immediate - shock, enough that he _does_ meet Optimus’ gaze with near-white, wide optics, and an appalled flair to his plating and his field. “What?” He chokes out the word. “Is he in custody? Are you alright?” He breaks off, helm ducking apologetically - “I mean. My Lord Prime.”

“I am unharmed, Mirage. Red Alert acted quickly, once the scheme was uncovered - he was able to... neutralize... Legend before he could act. Bumblebee will brief you further after the meeting.” Optimus pauses. “I find myself in need of a new helm of Operations.”

Mirage is quiet for a moment, as if expecting Optimus to speak further, but when he doesn’t, the spy speaks up, questioningly. “My Lord?”

“I need a mech I can trust, Mirage. A mech whose loyalty is beyond question, who can work well with Ironhide and the Prime’sguard, a mech who can work well with _me._ ” Mirage glances, questioningly, to his side, and Optimus gives a soft chuckle. “And Bumblebee doesn’t want the post.” 

“Nope,” the minibot adds, softly, grinning back at Mirage.

“I understand that you are still… very junior within Ops, but that is, at the moment, a secondary concern. If you’re willing, I’d like you to take the post.”

Mirage, for lack of a better term, gapes. “What?”

That gets him a fond chuckle from Optimus, and even Ironhide doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “I’d like you to take over as Ops helm, with Bumblebee as your second-in-command. You’re a talented young mech - I realize that this is a big step for you, but I think you’ll do well in the position.”

“I’m -” Mirage almost chokes on the word, falls silent, and pauses for a klik, obviously deliberating his next words. His tone when he continues is subdued, respectful, and just a little strained. “I’m _completely unqualified_ for the position, sir.”

“You won’t be handling alone,” Bumblebee offers, still grinning. “You’ll have me backing you up - and plenty of other talented mechs, once we’ve finished clearing out Legend’s rot. But right now, we need a leader we can trust - and everymech in Ops knows you’re the Prime’s mech to the struts.”

“Be more interestin’ than runnin’ a House, a’ least.” Ironhide doesn’t bother to keep the pride out of his field, and Mirage looks to him, wide-opticked. “Yer gonna do fine, kid. Take th’ job.”

“I won’t be upset if you refuse.” Optimus’ voice is firm, and he casts Ironhide a look of - not disapproval, exactly, but he stresses the words. “If you feel like it’s too much, there _are_ other options - and I’m sure you’re aware of the… permanence of the position. But… let me be frank, Mirage?”

He leans forwards, shifting in his chair until he can address the blue mech more directly, and Mirage hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Of course, my Lord Prime.”

Optimus gives a soft hum at that. “Are there more competent mechs than you in Ops? Mechs with better training, more experience? Of course there are.”

Mirage flinches a little, but Optimus waves a hand dismissively. “That’s not - I don’t mean it as a slight against you, or your character, Mirage. You’re young - there are mechs in Iaconi Ops who have been serving as agents longer than you’ve been alive - longer than _I’ve_ been alive. No one could expect you to have surpassed mechs with millennia of expertise so quickly - but it’s not your skill as an operative that I’m interested in.” He gestures, illustratively. “Mirage - my helm of Operations just tried to kill me in my own chambers - he came very, very close to succeeding. I need someone I can _trust._ ”

“Oh.” The word is soft, surprised - Ironhide can see the way Mirage’s plating flares, just a little, and settles, feel the flush of surprised pleasure in his field. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank _you._ ” He gestures at the fourth chair, still open. “Sit with us, Mirage?”

Mirage accepts his hand gracefully, rising to settle into the chair, and Ironhide reaches out to rest a hand on his knee - the smaller mech glances up at him, then wraps his own hand around it gratefully, field rippling with uncertainty. He relaxes, just a little, when Ironhide smiles down at him, then glances away, and back to the Prime - who is watching, fondly, and hurries to hide it.

“Right now, I need a coordinator. Someone who can be privy to _everything_ going on in Iacon, and work with the helms of the other territories... Beyond that, you’ll be able to delegate a lot of the day-to-day until you’ve gotten used to the position.” Optimus waves a hand towards Bumblebee. “I’d recommend Bumblebee as your second-in-command - at least until you’ve had some time to find someone who suits your needs better.”

“Recommend?” Mirage hesitates.

“You would be Ops commander, Mirage. You would have the right to arrange the department as you wish.”

“Oh.” Mirage gives a shaky vent, glances down. “I mean - if you think I’d be -”

_**BOOM!** _

Ironhide surges out of his chair - he’s on top of Optimus in a moment, covering the Prime’s frame with his

_**BOOM-ba-BOOM-BOOM!** _

and it takes him a moment to realize that the explosion - and it must be an explosion

isn’t coming from behind him

_**CR-REA-REAK** _

it’s below them

and as he hauls Optimus to his pedes, tries to get him moving towards his rooms, towards _safely_

_**BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!** _

another chain of deafening explosions rattles underpede, and he follows Optimus’ wide-opticked gaze to Bumblebee - to Mirage - and the look of shocked terror written on both of their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol so I've been a little busy... Got a job, was sick for a bit, ran out of my Concerta for a whole weeks :D So consider that a temporary hiatus I guess! BUT I'M BACK!!!
> 
> This chapter is kind of a mess though TBH. I had to split it, it just wasn't coming together the way I wanted, so this bit'll probably have some pretty heavy revisions but you get the point! I just needed to get it posted honestly, everything works better in editing.
> 
> So - yeah! Mirage is... in an interesting position. He's a skilled mech, but he's only been working as an Op for around a millennia at this point. He's done well for himself, make no mistakes, but he's not even considered a real adult by Cybertronian standards - he's still a young adult. Still, Ops lends itself to non-traditional leadership, and you can learn to be Ops helm, but you can't teach that sort of dedication to Optimus...
> 
> We'll learn more about who knew what next chapter vis a vis Ops and Legend. I've decided to extend some of the scenes there a bit, fiddle some stuff around, I like how it's coming together a lot more :D THE STRUGGLE...


	12. Chapter 12

There’s a klik where they all stare at each other, as the rumbling dies away - shock hanging in the air between them like invisible threads of lightning. Then Mirage manages to choke out, “My Prime -” 

Bumblebee is already gone by the time Optimus can manage a, “Go.”

Mirage races after him, even as Ironhide comms, desperately, for an answer - all of his ‘Guard give the same useless answers; explosions below, nothing compromised in the Prime’s levels. He orders mechs towards Ops - hopefully, they’ll be fast enough to catch Bumblebee and Mirage and follow them down, but he doubts it - and more to reinforce the Prime’s suits, to prepare for an evacuation, to go and make sure the Temple is secure -

Even as he coordinates on a dozen different fronts, he catches Optimus’ arm. “Optimus - we need to go -” Lockdown, ideally, but -

There’s something dark and awful in the Prime’s optics when he rumbles back a commanding, “No.” Ironhide doesn’t argue further.

He follows Optimus down the hall after Mirage, relaxing only slightly when they’re joined at the intersection to Ops by a whole team of Prime’sguard. Aileron slips up beside him, rifle out and ready, and he glances at the flier, who gives him a slightly wide-opticked look as they open comms.

::Wasn’ any stoppin’ ‘im. Wha’s goin’ on, Aile?::

Aileron gives him a sympathetic _look,_ at that. ::No idea, sir. We heard explosions - Ops Commander Bumblebee ordered us to wait here for clearance into Ops. Then you came around the corner.::

And guarding the Prime takes precedence over any requests from the helm of another department. Ironhide nods as they follow Optimus into the Ops hallways, headed down.

::What rescue units are available? Have them directed down here.:: Optimus’ voice is crisp, commanding, and _distracted_ \- Ironhide doesn’t doubt that he’s on comms with a half-dozen mechs already, trying to coordinate the recovery. He drops out of the comms channel almost immediately, not waiting for a response - and draws up short as they round a corner, and the plume of smoke and dust pouring out of the elevator shaft greets them.

Mirage is standing at the top of the shaft, almost matte grey with the dust on his plating, leaning over the gaping, dark hole. He turns to look at them, and it’s like staring across the battlefield at an empty - colorless armor shifting slowly to stare at them with bared dentae and lost, horrified optics, streaks of optical lubricant pouring down his cheeks to clear them from the dust - 

Then he speaks, and resolves back into Mirage. “Bee already -” His voice rasps awfully, and he resets his vocalizer - it doesn’t do anything to rid it of the dust, and he coughs again hoarsely before switching to comms. ::Bee already went down, my Lord Prime. He’s trying to see if there’s some way to access - you should be under lockdown, sir -::

“No,” Optimus offers, but his voice is gentle, this time. Mirage doesn’t argue.

::Already tried it, kid,:: Ironhide offers a quick ping on a private channel, before speaking aloud. “I’ve got two teams with haulin’ kit, an’ Warpath, on th’ way down. ‘Path’s bringin’ a full set o’ chemo’ceptors - we should let him sweep -”

He’s interrupted by a shout coming up the elevator - Mirage turns, looks down, then glances back at them. ::Bee’s saying that it’s stable -:: He hesitates. ::I need to go.::

“Go,” Optimus agrees. “Be safe.”

Mirage nods, and, like a flash, he’s moving - dropping into the open elevator shaft with a single clang before slipping noiselessly into the dark.

It’s almost a breem - Warpath is lowering a sensor-sniffer into the shaft - before Bumblebee returns, tumbling out of a vent. “There’s no way through - the range’s collapsed, can’t get any deeper without someone to haul off the rubble. No survivors, yet -” His voice is thin with stinging tension, and Optimus catches him by the shoulder, pulls him close. Bumblebee doesn’t lean into the touch - but he doesn’t fight it, either, and Ironhide can feel the brittle sting to his field.

“Your team?” the Prime asks, softly, and Bumblebee shudders.

“Safe.” His voice cracks a little. “Thank Primus - Blaster had called them for something, I don’t know what -” His shoulders start to tremble. “If - can I -”

Optimus rubs his back soothingly. “Go to them.” He glances up, catches sight of the first two Prime’sguard he can find. “Tacheon, Sabre - go with him. Ironhide - have Kup take a team over - I want the Comms building on lockdown.”

“Understood.” Ironhide waves the two guards off, comms Kup - the captain already has a team assembled, and doesn’t argue with the reassignment. “It’s done.”

“How long until we can get down there?” the Prime turns to Warpath - then glances at Ironhide. “How far off is medical?”

“Give me another breem. I’m not picking up anything, but -” the red mech slams a red fist into his palm with a loud clash - “rather not be wrong, you get me?”

“Of course.”

By the time he recalls the sniffer, one of the rescue teams has managed to get a makeshift lift together. No one argues when Optimus steps on, testing its strength with a pede before Ironhide joins him.

The trip down into the dark isn’t a long one - but it’s only as they descend that they can see the totality of the destruction. One side of the elevator shaft has been ripped away - shredded by the explosion, and it hangs, twisted, in a long, draping curtain of metal. It gives them a view out into what appears disconcerting, at first, to be a vast, empty chamber that Ironhide’s never seen before.

It takes him a moment to realize that it’s the shooting range, ceiling fallen through and down in one terrible slab, crushing everything beneath it.

Mirage turns to look at them as they descend, tiny in the vast space. One shoulder is scraped, badly, and it takes Ironhide a moment to realize why - to make out the slab of steel, almost buried under rubble beside him, that the smaller mech has been throwing himself uselessly against.

“Please - I need -” Mirage gestures at the slab - “One of you - it’s too heavy -”

Ironhide steps forwards, tests the metal. “Optimus - give me a hand, we’ll need a chain -” It doesn’t take long, between the two of them, to hook the chains into position, and, slowly, haul the twisted steel aside.

Mirage darts through the darkened doorway as soon as there’s space - and gives a low, wrenching cry as he comes up short, staring into the dim room beyond. Ironhide gives a last tug, to check that the steel is secured, and follows - hissing a low breath as he sees the twisted rubble on the other side. 

It’s awful. The ceiling, it’s obvious, has collapsed - not entirely, but enough that there are jagged, warped chunks of steel strewn across the floor, covering what, in the darkness, it’s hard to identify as bodies. Even without his lights, it’s easy to tell that none of the frames he _can_ see have survived the blast - crushed under the fallen metal, or shredded by the explosion -

Mirage gives another cry - a wail, almost, of grief - and claws his way into the room. Ironhide follows, optics stinging as they adjust as one of his ‘guards sets up a floodlight - it’s obvious that none of the elecricals have survived the blast, cables hanging in loose tangles from the ceiling.

He catches up to Mirage as he struggles with a plate of steel - chosen, seemingly, at random, or else Ironhide can’t see what’s caught the smaller mech’s focus, but he doesn’t ask any questions as he catches the edge and heaves it aside. Mirage gives a low, shuddering sob as it comes free - but it’s obvious that the frame trapped underneath it is greyed, spark fled, and he follows as Mirage moves on, leaving the corpse where it lies.

The next body they find is the same - and the next, and the next. Distantly, Ironhide can hear Optimus co-ordinating the rest of the rescue operation - giving orders, directing the medics, once they arrive - but it’s not important, not compared to the desperate grief overwhelming Mirage’s field, and the bodies still laying in the rubble. Around them, other mechs begin to sift through the ruins, but there’s no matching the mindless efficiency with which Mirage digs - and every point he chooses unearths another corpse.

They’ve found eight bodies by the time Mirage turns to him, optics white with distress, field so curdled and raw that it _scrapes_ across Ironhide’s, and cracks. He staggers, and Ironhide rushes forwards to catch him - he’s not quite quick enough, and Mirage is slumped on his knees by the time he reaches the smaller frame. 

“Primus,” he murmurs, softly, and it isn’t any kind of prayer.

“I -” Mirage stumbles on the words, vocalizer going silent with static, and Ironhide scoops him up, gently, cradles him against his chest and close to his spark, ignoring the way the turmoil in MIrage’s field lashes across his own. Mirage is almost whispering when he finds the words to ask what he has to -

“They’re not going to find anymech, are they?”

Ironhide doesn’t have an answer to give him - but that silence, it seems, is answer enough. Mirage’s optics go dark, and he doesn’t say anything else as Ironhide carries him out of the ruins of Ops.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

::I’m takin’ ‘im ta my rooms.:: Ironhide comms Optimus, who pings back wordless assent. ::Tell ‘bee and the others ta come up too - he’ll need ‘em.::

::Of course.:: Optimus’ voice is drenched in concern. ::Is he…::

He trails off, but Ironhide gives a little shake of his helm as he makes his way into the makeshift lift. ::Not good. We… I don’ think there’s anymech livin’ down ‘ere, Prime. I think ‘e knows.::

::I -:: Optimus gives a shaky vent, meeting his optics one last time as they begin to rise. ::Take care of him, ‘Hide. Don’t - don’t worry about me at all - take as much time as he needs.:: 

Ironhide pings back gratitude, and holds Mirage a little closer as the lift grinds to a stop.

No one tries to stop him as he carries Mirage out of Ops, back to the Prime’sguards corridors, back to his rooms. The private bath he never uses is a mercy - they’re both covered in dust, vents clogged with it, and Ironhide doesn’t bother to stop for fuel or rest before carrying Mirage inside. It’s a little tricky to fill the pool with solvent with Mirage in his arms - but there’s no way he’s putting the still-distraught mech down, and he manages it, after a klik.

“C’mon, kid.” He lowers them both into the solvent - piping hot - with a groan, and it fizzes and turns grey around them as it begins stripping the dust away. “There we go.” 

He’s painstakingly gentle as he starts to wipe the worst of the dust off, working the soft brush in careful circles across Mirage’s chest. He doesn’t worry about his own plating - there’ll be plenty of time for that, later - but Mirage is caked in the stuff, between his plates and across them, and it’s painstaking work to clear the ash away.

He makes his way to the smaller mech’s hands slowly, detailing each joint clean. They’re webbed with damage - the delicate armor is covered in scrapes and gouges where the jagged rubble has cut into it, and the fingers are all but stripped of nanites from digging in the ruins. Mirage gives a soft hiss as a shard of glass trapped in one joint gets knocked free, and Ironhide pauses - it’s the first sound he’s made since collapsing.

“‘S alright, kid.” He keeps his voice quiet, nonjudgemental. “Ye kin cry.”

Mirage makes a soft, low whimpering sound - and Ironhide can tell, by the tremble in his shoulders, that he is.

It’s more than a joor before he finishes up with Mirage’s frame - not that it takes that long, but he goes over the same spots again, and again, until at last the heat and gentle touches begin to smooth the smaller frame’s field. At last, Mirage gives a shuddering vent, and slumps, frame going slack, against him.

“Good mech.” Ironhide gives a hum of approval as he lifts the smaller frame out of the solvent, carries him over to the shower to rinse away the last of the murky liquid. 

He reaches out to turn off the spray as the solvent finally runs clear - and a hand reaches out, cautiously, to stop him. “Wait -” Mirage trembles, against his side, and his voice is thin and quiet. “Please…”

“‘S alright, mech.” Ironhide hums, gently, and brings his hand back, holds the smaller frame gently, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as the hot water rushes over them. “Wha’ever ye need.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eventually he does manage to get them both out of the shower, and dry. He guides Mirage carefully out to his lounge, settles with the smaller frame curled against his side, one hand still stroking his back through the mesh wrapped over his shoulders, and presses a sealed cube of med-grade into his hand. Mirage doesn’t drink any of it.

They’re still sitting like that, Mirage’s field jagged and raw, when Bumblebee staggers in. He doesn’t say anything as he walks past them - he’s covered in dust, too, and barely even glances over before swinging the bath’s door shut behind himself.

The rest of the warren - wide-opticked, fields humming with nervous energy - settle onto the other couch in a pile. Mirage gets nervous, careful glances - nothing compared to the tense suspicion they’re giving Ironhide, but they don’t interfere, so he carefully ignores it.

It’s a breem before Bumblebee emerges from the shower, plating mostly-clean and steaming-hot. He walks over - looks at them, looks at Ironhide, and then Mirage, for a long moment before his helm ducks respectfully.

“Commander.”

He settles down next to the rest of the warren, but not quite touching them, and meets Mirage’s gaze when the blue mech shifts to look at him. “Bumblebee.” Mirage’s voice is rough with dust still. “Any updates?”

“Not yet, sir. The Prime’sguard have taken over the excavation. It’ll be at least a cycle before they manage to…” He pauses. “To get deep enough that Ops oversight becomes necessary.”

He goes silent again, and then gives a long, slow vent. “The recovery team doesn’t anticipate survivors.” Mirage nods, shoulders trembling slightly beneath Ironhide’s hand.

The unspoken question - “ _What do we do?_ ” - hangs in the air between them like a knife. Then Mirage shifts again, just slightly - pulling himself upright, away from Ironhide, to grip the arm of the couch.

“We’re going to - to find out who did this.” His voice is deathly quiet, edged in threat, as he meets each of their optics in turn. “When we get them, I’m going to tear out their spark.”

It has the heavy weight of a promise, and Ironhide can feel the hum of approval in the room, even when nothing else, that night, is said.

\----------

It’s the next morning before any more news trickles in. Ironhide is dozing on the couch, and the minibots have migrated to nest around him - Bumblebee is curled in Mirage’s lap, the spy holding onto him like an anchor as his field shifts uneasily, even in recharge. It’s a knock at the door that has them all stirring - Howlback rumbling a threatening growl in the back of her throat as her helm rises to stare at the doorway.

It’s not likely that an assassin has managed to penetrate this deep into Ops, but Ironhide weighs the benefits of rising to get the door anyways, pinging the hallway camera before relaxing into the couch. “Come in, Ambulon.”

Ambulon shoves the door in, brusquely, and surveys them all with dim, exhausted optics before tromping across to the couch. He tosses down a bad - medical supplies, Ironhide assumes - and gestures curtly at Mirage. “You first.”

Mirage hesitates for just a moment before complying - and Bumblebee follows, when he rises to his pedes. Ambulon, Ironhide knows, has the clearance to work on _anymech_ \- he’s the _Prime’s medic_ \- but that doesn’t mean that Ops is eager to trust him.

Still, Bumblebee doesn’t do anything beyond observe as Ambulon works, carefully pulling ruined filters and flushing dust-clogged lines. Mirage doesn’t so much as flinch as the medic works steadily down his frame.

Ironhide doesn’t interrupt, either, until the medic gives a soft huff of approval. “You’re done.” He gestures Bumblebee forwards, but Ironhide shifts in his seat just enough that Ambulon’s gold optics flick to him, first, before he can start again - 

“Ye look like slag, mech.”

Ambulon gives a small, humorless laugh. “I’m the only medic alive with the clearance to handle Ops remains.” He looks away, and Ironhide sees the faint shake in his fingers as he pulls the first of Bumblebee’s filters. “Optimus - the Prime sent me away when we stopped finding -”

The choked, soft noise he makes is awful, a sob drawn thin, and Ironhide can’t think of anything to say. Ambulon finishes his work in silence, and glances at him again. “You too -”

“Nah, kid.” And Ambulon is so young - all of a sudden, he feels terribly, terribly old, surrounded by Ops and their grief. “Come here?”

Ambulon doesn’t move - but he’s not so far away that Ironhide can’t reach out and drag him a little closer, sliding Windcharger out of the way enough that he can settle the medic beside himself. He scoops Mirage’s undrunk cube off the table, shoves it into the medic’s hands. “Drink, ‘lon -” And Ambulon does.

“Get some rest,” Mirage tells him, glancing at Bumblebee for a moment. The medic shakes his helm.

“Can’t - there’s no one else who can -”

“I can.” Mirage takes a step closer to the door. “I need to be on site anyways. Get some recharge - if we do -”

His voice cracks, and he falls silent for a moment.

“We’ll need you if we find any survivors.” Ambulon nods, and Mirage is gone - Alpha flickering to life the moment before he steps out of Ironhide’s room.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How is he?” Optimus asks, softly, flicking through the datapad in his hand. “He looks…”

He doesn’t need to elaborate - anymech could see the exhaustion on Mirage’s face, the painful tightness to his gait, the wariness haunting his optics as he slips through the halls -

Anymech that could see him at all, that is - the spy has been slipping through the hallways invisible as a shadow, the last few days. Ironhide shrugs at the Prime’s question.

“Ye’ve prob’bly seen as much’a ‘im as I have, honestly.” He gestures back towards Ops. “That - ‘e’s been doin’ better since Hound got back, but ‘e’s not gonna to be alright ‘til ‘e’s stuck a knife in the spark o’ the mechs responsible. I don’t think any o’ them will be.”

“They’ve been staying with you?”

Ironhide nods. “Yeah - not lettin’ me closer than they have ta, but… Ain’ like I mind a mess o’ minis on my couches, a’ least, but none’a them’re sleepin’ much. Recharge terrors, prob’ly, but they ain’ lookin’ ta talk ta me.”

Optimus gives a sympathetic hum. “How are _you_ holding up?”

Ironhide gives a deep, rattling sigh.

“I was never close wi’ Ops, ye know tha’. Th’ mechs I care ‘bout wasn’ in tha’ Pit when it fell in.” He shrugs. “It’s - hard. Will be ‘til we figure out who did it, an’ how, I ‘spect. An’... lotta my mechs lost friends. We’re all angry. Jus’ gotta give it time.”

“Have you found any leads?” Optimus holds up the datapad. “I mean, I’ve been reading through the reports, but -”

“Dunno if th’ blast was ‘pposed ta be as big as it were - if th' bomber didn' know tha' th' ceilin' was wired ta collapse, they might'a been plannin' somethin' a lot more targeted, an' got luck - or unlucky, but we ain' found any frames tha' wasn' Ops, yet. Could’a - maybe - been an accident - but it’s _real off_ tha’ somemech pulled all th’ minis outta Ops ‘fore th’ blast went.”

“We’re sure that that was deliberate, then?”

Ironhide shrugs again. “A’ sure as we can be. A spoofed signal, ta’ get ‘em all over ta Blaster’s? Ain’ happenin’ on a lark, an’ th’ number o’ mechs tha’ can do it… Gonna get Red on it, ‘s soon as ‘ferno gets him calm enough ta work.”

“Have you -”

“Nothin’.” He huffs. “Was hopin’ ye’d’ve heard from him, actually… They’re still shut up in security. ‘M half ‘spectin’ tha’ th’ next we’ll see o’ Red’s when he bursts inta a council meetin’ an’ shoots th’ senator responsable in th’ face, honestly.”

That gets him the first honest chuckle he’s heard from Optimus - from anymech, really - since the blast, quiet but _real_ , and Ironhide can feel something inside him relaxing, a coiled spring in his spark easing slightly at the sound. He grins, just a little - he doesn’t have it in him to laugh, quite yet - and Optimus matches it.

“Let’s hope it’s not going to become a habit.” His gaze drops back down to the file in his hand - then he vents, and sets it aside. “Though with some of these mechs -”

It’s not quite enough to lift the dark pall of death from the room - but, listening to Optimus discuss the Senate’s scheming, Ironhide relaxes, slightly, spark feeling lighter than it has in cycles.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ironhide isn’t surprised, exactly, to be summoned to the Prime’s chambers - but four cycles out from the bombing, he hasn’t had a day off-shift yet, and he’s _tired._ Still - Optimus knows that, and the knowledge that the Prime wouldn’t interrupt his rest lightly puts speed in his steps as he enters the Primal Chambers.

The guards at the door nod at him respectfully - whatever’s going on, they seem unaware, alert but not concerned by his presence.

Optimus is sitting at his couch, looking concerned - his optics are dark, lips set in a frown. He gives a little relieved vent when the door slips shut behind Ironhide. “Thank Primus - come and sit.” He waves over at the chair beside him, then glances over at Kup, who’s sitting across from him on guard duty. “Ah, Kup -”

“I’ll give you kids some privacy.” The old mech nods, and shares a _look_ with Ironhide as he strides out of the room - something that only makes the surging unease in his spark grow.

“Wha’s up, Optimus?” he asks, when the door clicks shut again - and, at a gesture from the Prime, locks. Optimus gives a low, steady sigh.

“I’ve just spoken to Inferno.”

“Inferno?” Ironhide’s optics widen. “Pit - Red - is he alright?”

“Red is, apparently, fine.” Optimus pauses. “He’s the mech who blew up Ops.”

There’s a long, long klik between them as Ironhide processes that.

“ _What?!_ ”

“Red Alert uncovered evidence of -” Another heavy vent. “Of a plot to assassinate me. Within Ops. A second one. He decided that the appropriate course of action was to handle the traitorous mechs himself.”

“Primus.” Ironhide slumps back into his chair. It’s - the worst thing he could imagine, awful beyond belief - Red Alert’s paranoia finally slipping out of control entirely… “Primus. I’ll go - bring ‘em both in myself, see if I kin keep ‘im from glitchin’ too bad -”

But Optimus shakes his helm. “He wasn’t glitched, Ironhide. The evidence -” 

He goes silent again, pinging Ironhide a file - Ironhide takes a klik to review it, then another. “Primus.” It’s - unbelievable, almost, but - “Ye’d’a - Primus. They’d’ve slagged ye.”

“Needless to say, I have no intentions of… _punishing_ Red for his actions.” Optimus’ field ripples with concern. “He wasn’t in his right mind, Inferno says. Inferno managed to keep him from - from going after Bee’s warren, and Mirage, but…”

He doesn’t have to explain more - Inferno’s loyalty is, _has to be_ , first and always to Red Alert. To warn them, even of something this awful, would be a betrayal that the hacker would never recover from.

“Besides - they’re gone. The cycle after Legend, apparently - while we all thought they were locked up in security. They’re going to ground somewhere - Inferno says that they probably won’t be back.” 

“Smart o’ them. Bee an’ ‘Raj and the rest - they want ta slit lines over this. Dunno if we could keep ‘em safe in th’ Palace if it got out tha’ they was th’ mechs responsible.” Red Alert’s defenses have always been impressive - but Ops are _talented_ at what they do.

“I won’t hide it from them.” Optimus shakes his helm at the surprised look that gets him. “‘Hide - I _can’t_. They deserve to know why their friends are dead.”

“An’ it ain’ like they’re gonna stop lookin’ fer answers.” Ironhide vents. “Ye could be gettin’ Red killed. Even in hidin’ - they ain’ ghosts, mech. Ops’ll find ‘em, once they start lookin’.”

Optimus doesn’t meet his optics. “Yes. I know.” 

“Tell ‘Raj first.” That gets him a surprised noise, and Ironhide nods. “Pit - ye know how ‘e feels ‘bout traitors, he might - reign ‘em in some, a’ least. An’ ‘e’s Ops helm now - even if ye’ve never made it ‘fficial, all o’ Bee’s crew’re actin’ like it. Gotta get used ta tellin’ ‘im slag, rather’n goin’ ta Bee, or it’ll be a real strange relationship fer th’ three o’ ye…”

“You’re right. Of course you are.” Optimus nods, then pauses. “He’ll be down in a breem.”

“Now?” It’s past late - but, then, he doubts Mirage was in recharge before Optimus commed.

“No point in waiting.”

“Mm.”

Mirage looks worse off then Ironhide, when he nudges the door open - tired to the very struts. Still, his optics are bright and alert, and Ironhide doesn’t want to think about what Ops concoctions he might be using to keep them that way. 

“My Lord Prime.” He ducks his helm respectfully. “Ironhide.”

“Mirage. Come - sit with us.” Optimus waves him towards a seat, and Mirage sinks into it with a deep and obvious relief. “How are you - all of you - doing?”

Mirage hesitates for just a moment before speaking, optics locked on Optimus. “We’re…” He can’t seem to find the words, waves a hand as if to illustrate, and vents heavily. “You can imagine, sir. We’ll - we’ll all rest easier once we catch the mechs behind…”

He trails off, and Optimus nods. “That’s why I’ve called you here. We’ve… uncovered the mech responsible for the destruction of Ops.” Optimus pauses, just for a moment, and Ironhide sees the way Mirage tenses, optics brightening. “It was Red Alert.”

“ _What?_ ” The disbelief in his tone is a credit to Red Alert, at least. “No -”

“The rest of Ops were plotting to assassinate me, Mirage. The evidence is conclusive.” He hesitates again, reaching out to lay a hand on the smaller mech’s knee comfortingly. “I’m sorry.”

“I - no.” Mirage tugs away, optics near-white. “I - I want to talk to him.”

Optimus glances, for a split moment, at Ironhide, who shrugs, helplessly. “We don’t have a good way to contact him - he’s gone to ground until -”

::I’m here.:: All three of them flinch at the effortless, sudden commschannel that blooms open between them. ::Mirage - I’m sorry -::

::They were traitors?:: The noble doesn’t waste time on pleasantries - his voice is clipped, almost curt, and so, so tired. ::Red -::

::They were.:: Red Alert pauses, then pings all three of them a packet. There’s silence, for a few kliks, as Mirage reviews the data.

::Thank you.::

::I’m sor - what?:: Red Alert stumbles over the apology.

::Thank you.:: Mirage nods. ::They - they got what they earned, then. Bumblebee and his warren - they’re clean?::

::Ah - yes, but -:: Red Alert trails off, sounding uneasy.

::Thank you.:: Mirage’s optics go dark as he processes, for a klik - then brighten again as he sits up, turns to Optimus. “My Lord Prime…”

“Mirage -” Optimus starts, but Mirage barely seems to hear him.

“Can I - can I tell them?” His hand is shaking, just slightly, and it wraps around the plating of his knee to keep steady. “We won’t - none of them will try to _touch_ Red without your command, but -”

His vocalizer cracks, and Optimus nods gently.

“Go. Be with them.” He strokes the smaller mech’s knee. “Take a few cycles - all of you. There’s time.”

Mirage nods gratefully, and almost staggers as he gets to his pedes - Ironhide rises to steady him, but the smaller mech brushes him aside. As he does, though, Ironhide feels his field, drawn tight to his frame - it’s like a living thing, raw with grief, coiled just beneath the plating - 

Mirage starts to turn - but Ironhide catches him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are ye - gonna be alright, kid? They were yer friends -”

“I thought they were.” There’s something empty and cold, in the way Mirage looks up at him, and it makes Ironhide’s spark ache. “I thought they were good mechs.” He laughs, and it’s derisive, almost biting. “I thought Phantasm was a good mech, once. I’ve though - thought lots of mechs were good. Maybe I’m just a terrible judge of character.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing out of Ironhide’s grasp - and the door settles shut behind him with an awful, heavy thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I feel bad for doing such terrible things to Mirage. As I put it in one of the discords I'm in "This would be a charming found-family fic if I didn't kill off Mirage's found family..."
> 
> But... yeah. ~*~trauma~*~
> 
> And, obviously this is me speaking from the chair of Peter, but... I really do think that Ops cared about Mirage. I know that I didn't go into why they turned on Optimus (I know why, but it doesn't really matter to the story, because it doesn't really matter to _Mirage_ ) but... he did have friends, real ones. Ops is just... like this, sometimes - and everyone knew he was too loyal to Optimus to risk turning while Optimus was still alive. If they had succeeded... well, they'd have tried to bring him around with them. Probably would've had to kill him anyways. That's Ops.
> 
> As far as the _how_ \- yeah, Red shimmied down to Ops while everyone thought he was locked in Security, wired in a couple more packs of explosives, then escaped and got on a shuttle off-planet. He waited until Bee and Mirage were summoned out of Ops, then spoofed a comm from the Prime to everymech else on base except the minibots (most people had been recalled after the Legend incident while that was investigated) that he would be announcing the next helm of Ops, and to report to the range. Meanwhile, he spoofed a comm from Blaster to the minibots that Blaster needed to talk to them about something, and got them out of the building - then, once everyone was in Ops, blew the charges on the ceiling of the range and collapsed two floors of Ops down on each other, killing everymech inside. 
> 
> Hound, at the time, was still returning from a mission, and there are a few other stragglers, probably, too - but now that everyone knows about the plot, they'll have gone to ground, to be hunted down and interrogated as Ops recovers.
> 
> As far as Red's glitch goes... this was and wasn't a glitch. Optimus says it wasn't, and he's right, in a lot of ways - the conclusions Red was drawing were accurate and based in reality, but the frenticness, the paranoia, those are symptoms of him slipping out of control. He 100% would have killed Mirage, Hound, and Bee's warren, if Inferno hadn't been there to mediate - and he would have felt terrible about it after, when his glitch subsided, but that wouldn't have saved them from the flawed decision tree that made him group them in as potential threats. The fleeing offworld is a symptom of that same flawed set of decisions - he's incapable of not seeing them as potential hostiles, of just going to Optimus with his evidence and expecting it to be believed.
> 
> That's part of why no one is mad Inferno didn't warn them - he's the only mech, the _only_ mech, that has a chance of getting through to Red Alert when he glitches, because Red Alert trusts him entirely. They've known each other a long time, since before the war, and Inferno has never betrayed Red, never lied to him - he gave up all his amica bonds to become Red's conjunx, because Red couldn't bear the thought of having other mechs so close to his processors... It's a flawed relationship, and not always the easiest one, but they wouldn't trade it for anything, and I would love to write more about them at some point (I have a three-shot all planned out lol). But, yeah - Optimus and the rest know that Inferno will put Red before _anything_ , and part of getting Red's genius is accepting that.
> 
> Next chapter will be some one shots of Mirage as Ops commander - then we'll be off to the modern day, and the events of The Talk! And then we'll be back with our usual crew, at long last :D
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> It's so _BEAUTIFUL_!!!!
> 
> The absolutely fantastic Luxxbot did this gorgeous commission of the scene in Chapter Five where they're waiting for their paint to dry. Oh my god these lads are handsome - go smother Luxx with love for me over on their Tumblr, K? 
> 
> https://luxxbot.tumblr.com/
> 
> Next chapter... soonish, I'm just busy with work :D


	14. Chapter 14

Mirage limps, just slightly, as he walks into the Prime’s audience chamber, letting out a soft groan like a mech ten times his age as he sinks into his chair. Ironhide passes him a sealed cube, and he hums appreciatively, murmuring a greeting to Optimus as he stretches the injured leg. “My Lord Prime.”

“Mirage.” Optimus dips his own helm in response, tipping his cube before taking a small sip as the blue mech checks the seal. “Your leg is improving?”

“Just waiting for the last of the welds to set, my lord. Ambulon says he’ll be able to readjust the tensors within a cycle or two, and that should be the last of the limp, at least.” Mirage sips the cupe gratefully, then sets it aside. “Thank you.”

Not the last of the pain, then, Ironhide notes - but Ambulon is a talented medic. “How’ve ye an’ Ops been doin’, in th’ meanwhile?”

Mirage glances up at Ironhide, takes a sip of his energon, and shrugs. “Not bad. Not…” He waves a hand helplessly, and takes a sip of his energon.

“Tha’ bad, huh?”

“Rough.” The noble lets out a steady vent. “I mean…”

“Ye all lost friends.”

“It isn’t even that!” Mirage shakes his helm. “Just - we don’t have the _mechs_ , ‘hide. We’ve gone from seventy agents to less than twenty - even keeping me in the field, we don’t have _coverage._ ”

Optimus considers that for a klik. “Even with the mechs who weren’t in Iacon when Red...”

He trails off, but Mirage stills and glances up anyways. “They’ve been dealt with. My lord.”

“Oh.” It takes a klik for what the noble means to sink in, and Optimus reaches out to rest a sympathetic hand on his knee. “ _Oh._ I’m sorry - they were all -”

A curt nod, and Ironhide leans back in his chair with a vent. “Primus.”

“I handled it myself,” Mirage offers after a moment, gesturing at the leg. “With Howlback. There should be no… loose ends to compromise us. ‘Hide, I’ll have the information we’ve collected on the conspiracy itself sent on to you once we’ve finished redacting it - we have a good idea of the specifics, at this point.”

“Good.” Ironhide doesn’t ask _how_ the information is being gathered - he doesn’t want to know. Torture is one thing, but Ops takes betrayal seriously - as seriously as the Prime’sguard - and an investigation like this won’t balk at harsher methods of interrogation. “How ‘bout Bee an’ th’ rest? How’re they holdin’ up?”

“Well. They have the warren - it’s not…” He shrugs and waves a hand. “I’ve been keeping an optic on things, but they’re resilient. Ambulon is more of a concern.”

“Ambulon?” Optimus shifts in his seat, leaning forwards - the medic has been his personal one for more than a millennia, and Prime’sguard for longer than that. “Is he alright?”

“Adjusting, I think - and Bumblebee agrees with me. I think the bombing upset him more than either of us, in the long run - he doesn’t have the same ability to…” He seems to search for the word, “compartmentalize.”

“I can look for a replacement,” Optimus offers, and Mirage hesitates. 

“If you think it’s necessary. But - if we’re pulling from other Ops units, sir, I’d rather have more mechpower - aside from the… tensions… around the bombing, I think Ambulon is adjusting well - it’s just a matter of time, and experience with Opsmecha.”

“Mm.” Optimus makes a soft noise of agreement - and, no doubt, a note to talk to Ambulon privately later - and nods. “I’ve reached out to Elita. She’s offered three of her mechs - Skids, Getaway, and Punch.”

That gets a relieved look from Mirage. “Punch? Definitely. Flipsides will be delighted. I don’t know the other two?”

Optimus pings the file over, and Mirage skims it briefly before glancing up. “Getaway is…”

“Dead?” Optimus nods. “Twenty-three mechs can swear to the fact that he went down piloting a shuttle full of explosives over the Acid Gulf. He has to transfer with Skids, however - they’re a team.”

“Of course, but -” Mirage trails off again at the impish curl on Optimus’ lip and flickers curiosity across his field.

“He’s been officially dead a good three ‘r four times, kid,” Ironhide offers, taking pity on him. “Don’ mean slag - he’s always come crawlin’ back from th’ Well somehow. ‘Ventually th’ medics stopped signin’ off on ‘is paperwork, so ‘e can’t be pronounced wi’out a slagged corpse. Worked wi’ ‘im an’ ‘is partner a few times in Crystal City - they’re solid mechs.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Mirage nods, scanning the file again. “Skids should help fill the whole in Tactical, at least for the moment - not that your tacticians haven’t been invaluable, ‘hide, but…”

“Ye need somemech ta keep on top’a th’ day’ta’day.” Ironhide nods.

“I’ve reached out to Ultra Magnus,” Optimus offers. “He’s put out the word among the other Enforcer commanders that the Prime’sguard are looking for a small-squad tactician. Hopefully they’ll have at least a few candidates for you to pick from.”

“He’s aware of the nature of the position?” Mirage checks, and Optimus nods. 

“Of course.”

Mirage flashes him a grateful smile. “Thank you, my lord. Between myself, Bumblebee and Red Alert, we’re managing things, but…” The stress tickling the edges of his field is obvious - he doesn’t have to explain.

“How’re the minis doin’ with that?” Ironhide can’t quite resist the question. “I mean - th’ rest o’ Ops mighta been slaggers, but by th’ sound o’ it, Red wasn’ too concerned ‘bout keepin’ ye an’ th’ warrenoutta it ‘til ‘ferno reigned ‘im in.”

“It’s not like Legend wouldn’t have killed us.” Mirage meets his optics, and there’s something cold in the noble’s gaze. “Whatever he - whatever _they all_ thought, I’d’ve torn out my _spark_ before serving a traitor’s Prime. Better he take all of us than none, if those were the only options. Not that I don’t appreciate Inferno intervening.”

“Hah!” It’s a cold thing to say - it would be unnerving, if Ironhide didn’t agree with it to the spark of him. Still, there’s something in Mirage’s voice, in the poised way he says it, that tickles at memory - 

“Primus, ‘raj.” He laughs again. “Sayin’ it like that - ye sound just like Leg.”

He can tell, the moment the words are out of his mouth - as they slip over his glossa - that it’s the exact wrong thing to say. Mirage’s optics go wide, for a moment, and then narrow as his face goes awful and still. His field draws in - closing off as it drags back from Ironhide, and Optimus, and he can see that the Prime has realized the same thing that he has.

“Wait - slag, ‘raj, I didn’t mean it like that -”

“I don’t know how else you could have meant it, Commander Ironhide.” There’s something terribly cold in Mirage’s voice as he shifts back, just a little - something stinging and hurt and bitter - 

“‘Raj -”

“ _Commander_ Mirage, Ironhide.” The words are curt, and Ironhide goes silent, his own optics wide and not sure what to say. Mirage turns to Optimus with a bow of his helm, voice polite like a knife. “Thank you for your time, my Lord Prime - but I should go and check in with Bumblebee. If you’ll excuse me?”

He pauses for just a moment - not long to wait for a response - and turns on a heel to stride, pace clipped, from the briefing room. There’s a moment of hollow silence between Ironhide and Optimus before Ironhide lets his whole frame slump, defeated. “Pit. I’m an aft.”

Optimus sucks air over his dentae in a hiss of agreement. “You are.” He reaches out and brushes a hand over Ironhide’s knee, optics dimming with concern. “He -”

“- doesn’ wanna look at me, an’ I can’t blame ‘im. Pit, pit, pit - I’m an aft.”

He rubs his forehead with a hand - then vents, heavily, when Optimus makes a gentle but agreeing noise. “He’ll calm down, ‘hide. It’s hardly the worst thing you’ve said to another mech.”

Ironhide grunts noncommittally. “Eh, it’s up there. Primus. I wasn’ even thinkin’ -”

“He did that little thing with his shoulders,” Optimus agrees, hand rising to rub gently at the back of his neck. “The noble thing. I noticed it too -”

“But ye had th’ sense not ta mention it.” Ironhide hesitates - then glances out the door. “I should -”

“Give him a little time, ‘hide.” Optimus offers. “He’s young - let him be angry for a bit. You’ve already apologized once - let him calm down.”

It’s - not the worst advice, even if it goes against everything Ironhide wants to do - and he slowly, slowly, sinks back into his chair. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll give him…” He vents again, a long, drawn out noise, and then looks back up. “Let’s see if we can get through th’ financial reports, then? Ye had th’ budgetary surplus fer th’ last vorn -”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t see plate nor cable of Mirage for three cycles. He doesn’t look, for the first two - gives the younger mech his space - but by the third, it’s obvious that the noble is avoiding him.

Still, he’s only a little surprised when he shoves the door to his suite open to a grinning - and upside down - Hot Rod, dangling by his knees from the stairs.

“What’d you do to slag ‘raj off?” The red and gold mech asks cheerfully.

“Nothin’.” Ironhide offers gruffly, offering Hot Rod an arm - the smaller mech swings up to grab it, dragging himself upright as he goes before dropping to land lightly on the floor. “Wha’ makes ye think I slagged ‘im off?”

“Overheard him talking to Hound and Bee.” Hot Rod looks gleeful. “He said he was going to teach me how to slit cables because it’d frag with you.”

“Did he?” Ironhide drops heavily onto the couch, and it’s only a moment before Hot Rod is curled comfortably under his arm, pressing into his side.

“Yup!” He wiggles a little, and Ironhide tucks him a little closer, letting his engine purr. “So _I_ said that sounded fine, and _Hound_ said of course they weren’t going to teach me, and Mirage sort of nodded but he looked like he was thinking about it - I think I can talk him ‘round, honestly, I mean, it’s not like he didn’t give me a _sword_ -”

“Ye runnin’ off on th’ ‘guard so soon? Warpath’s gonna be sparkbroken.” Ironhide keeps his tone teasing, and Hot Rod grins.

“Of course not! But - I don’t know, I think it’d be cool!” Hot Rod flicks a knife out from - _somewhere_ , and it’s admittedly quite impressive that Ironhide can’t tell _where_ \- and makes a little stabbing motion. “ _Hyah!_ Sneak up on someone and… _Huyah!_ ”

Ironhide can’t help a laugh, at that, tugging teasingly at Hot Rod’s spoiler. “We’ll hafta come up wit some new colors fer ye, mech. Ain’ many mech that’re gonna miss ye long enuff fer a stabbin’ if yer red an’ yellow…”

“ _Bumblebee_ manages it!” Hot Rod protests, flicking his spoiler. ” _Bumblebee_ can sneak up on anyone, and _he’s_ bright yellow all over -”

“He’s also a slaggin’ _minibot,_ kid. Ye can hardly keep ‘em from underpede when they’re tryna catch yer optic, let alone when they’re _hidin’ -_ ” He waves a hand at around waist-height - “An’ yer a whole-aft mech!”

“Well -” But Hot Rod is giggling too much at that to come up with a reasonable argument. 

“Did ye ever think ‘bout joinin’ Ops, kid?” Ironhide asks, voice softening, after another moment.

“Huh?” Hot Rod looks - surprised, at that. “What? I mean - yeah, a bit. Bumblebee’s cool, and Mirage is in Ops, and all the other minis, but - I like working for Optimus. I like the ‘guard.”

“Mm.” Ironhide considers that for a klik. “An’ if ‘raj was ta ask ye? Ye know he needs th’ mechs…”

“I…” Hot Rod trails off, as if contemplating his answer, then shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe. But… Maybe I could just help out when they need me? I mean, I’m not an Op…”

“That’s what I was gettin’ at. If ye keep trainin’, ye’ll be well set up for that sorta thing.” Ironhide shifts a little under the smaller frame, settling back against the cushions. “An’ a ‘guard who knows how ta work wi’ Ops, tha’s a useful thing ta be. I used ta lend mechs ta Ops all th’ time, even back when ol’ Leg was runnin’ things - ‘spect once ‘raj gets a little more comfortable wit’ the mechs ‘e’s got, ‘e’ll come askin’. If ye wanna be tha’ mech…”

“You think I could?” Hot Rod’s optics are wide and fascinated, and Ironhide nods.

“Yeah - ‘spect that ‘raj’d be pleased as punch ta have ye - smart thing like ye, an’ yer tough ‘nough fer guardin' th’ minibots or playin’ th’ heavy fer one o’ ‘is Ops. Like I said, ye’ll need more trainin’ - give ye over ta Warpath fer some extra demolitions courses, maybe have ye work some more agility - but if ye wanted -” He trails off on the offer, but Hot Rod is already bobbing his helm eagerly in agreement.

“I - yeah, that’d be really cool!”

“I’ll talk ta Kup, fiddle yer schedule ‘round a bit, then.” Ironhide nods, pinging the older mech briefly. “It’s ‘bout time we were gettin’ ye a specialty, anyways. Ye’ve picked everythin’ else up too quick fer us, kid.”

Hot Rod preens under the praise, whole field alive with pleasure at it for a moment before he draws it close - but, curled together, Ironhide can still feel the blush of pleasure. He enjoys it, for a klik, stroking the spoiler fondly, before hesitating.

“Roddy -” he vents. “Do me a favor, kid?”

Hot Rod looks surprised, almost uncertain. “Yeah - sure!”

“Don’ - don’ mention tha’ I brought ye workin’ wi’ Ops up ta ‘raj. Or Bee an’ th’ rest. I - me an’ ‘im’ve had a disagreement, lately, an’ I don’ wan’ ‘im ta feel like I’m usin’ ye ta frag wi’ ‘im, right?”

“Oh, uh -” The smaller mech looks uncertain at that, but only hesitates a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thanks, kid. An’, hey -” Ironhide hesitates, but Hot Rod looks up to him, bright opticked. 

“Yeah?”

“Tell ‘raj that -” Ironhide goes quiet again - lets his hand rub, gently, at the end of the smaller mech’s spoiler. “Tell ‘im that I said anythin’ he was willin’ ta teach ye, I was fine wi’. ‘Cause I trust ‘is judgement.”

Hot Rod perks up. “Really?”

“If ye start goin’ ‘round stabbin’ mechs -”

“Only a little!” Hot Rod halfway _rolls_ to his pedes, engine revving. “I’m gonna go tell Hound -”

“Ye don’ hafta be in a rush, kid -” But Ironhide doesn’t try to stop him, just huffs a laugh at the sound of Hot Rod bursting out the door and crashing into the opposite wall before scrambling down the hall. “Or -”

But the smaller ‘guard is already out of earshot, and Ironhide can only chuckle at his excitement in the younger mech’s wake.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A cycle later, Ironhide glances up at the crisp knock on his door. “C’m in?”

He’s surprised when Mirage pushes the door open - not to see the younger mech, but… it’s been a long time since Mirage has bothered to _knock._

“Commander Ironhide.” The crisp address - and the tight way Mirage’s field is pulled against his frame - puts him more on edge, and he responds with the same formality.

“C’mander M’rage.” 

Mirage looks surprised at the title - his plating, flared not quite aggressively but almost defensively, settles just a little. Still, there’s a tightness to his posture that doesn’t go away as he steps inside and tugs the door shut.

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Mirage seems to steel himself. “I don’t need your _permission_ to teach Hot Rod.”

_Oh._

Ironhide rises to his pedes, steps towards the younger mech, plating settled and field steady. He stops when he’s just overlapping - the bare, courteous distance of two nobles speaking.

“O’ course ye don’. ‘E’s yer brother.”

Mirage’s optics flash with surprise - his whole field flickers with it, whatever aggression was building disarmed. “He’s -” He hesitates at the easy agreement, and falls quiet. “Yes. He is.”

“‘E said ye were gonna teach him how ta sneak ‘round like an opsmech?” Ironhide gestures the younger mech over towards the couches, and Mirage, helpless in the face of basic manners, follows along. “Somethin’ ‘bout knifin’ mechs, actually, but I assume he was bein’ dramatic?”

Mirage hesitates for a long, quiet klik.

“I had thought to, yes.” Finally, he gives in, letting his plating relax as he settles back against the seat. “He’s got the talent for it, I think. Not the frame, necessarily - but he’s of the opinion that the more ‘sneaky spy tricks’ he knows, the better he’ll be able to detect them.”

“‘E’s a good kid. Got a passion fer th’ work.”

Mirage gives a soft chuff. “He’s an optimist.” The words are fond, though, and Ironhide knows - they both know - how much of a miracle that is. “How is he doing with you?”

“Real good.” Ironhide picks up his cube and takes a draught. It’s not quite the relaxed atmosphere of two co-workers chatting, but it’s close. “He’s been takin’ some single shifts wi’ Optimus - nothin’ risky, but I’ve been leavin’ him ta keep an optic out when Optimus is hangin’ round th’ Primal Suites. They get on well - he’s gonna make a great close guard someday.”

“That’s -” Mirage gives a small smile, even if his gaze is still guarded. “Good to hear. I’m glad.”

“Ye’ve got a lot ye can teach him,” Ironhide offers. “Yer a talented mech, ‘raj. I don’ doubt tha’ he’ll be able ta put ta use anything ye show ‘im, one way or another.”

“And he’s a quick learner.” Mirage nods. “He said - something about Kup adjusting his training schedule?”

“I wanted ta give ‘im more time wi’ Warpath.” Mirage seems to accept that, and consider it for a klik before responding.

“May I have him for - one klik - two joors, three cycles an orn? Between myself and the warren, we should be able to manage some additional training for him.” Mirage hesitates again. “It will have to be a little flexible, but if he’s already training with Warpath -”

“I’ll talk ta Kup, work it in.” Something in Ironhide relaxes a little at Mirage’s question - at seeing him again, even if there’s still a guarded space between them that he’s never noticed before. “Thank ye.”

“Thank you, Commander Ironhide.” And just like that, the distance seems to stretch a little further, even if nothing in Mirage’s field and frame has changed at all. “I’ll check in with Kup - though I expect Hot Rod will inform me promptly as soon as the changes go through, regardless. I’ll see you next orn.”

Then he’s gone, slipping out the door before Ironhide can say anything else at all.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Vorns_ go by, and Ironhide doesn’t see much of Mirage - not outside their meetings with Optimus, and the occasional glimpse of him with Hot Rod, or walking down the halls between Ops and the rest of the Palace, Bumblebee dogging his heels often as not.

The quiet between them simmers, softly, calm but uneasy, but nothing else is said - their interactions cool but achingly polite.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Fraggin’ pit.”

Ironhide groans as he comes online, whole frame aching - tries to cover his optics against the harsh light above them, but his arm is pinned down -

No, held, he corrects himself, forcing the panic of being suddenly locked in place down as he orients himself to the world. Mag-locked to a berth - and the harsh light means he’s in medical, and the pain -

The pain finally registers as the last of his systems bring themselves online, and he groans again. It’s not the worst he’s ever felt - obviously some pain surpressants have already been administered, but he aches all over, and there’s an awful protoform-deep soreness, like his frame has been flayed open and all his protomatter scalded.

Mercifully, a figure reaches up to dim the lights - and his spark knows it’s Chromia, even if he’s nothing more than a shadowy sillohette against his vision. “Chromi’?” he grunts, confused - and amusement tinged with sympathy pulses over the bond, stronger than he’s felt in decavorns.

“It’s fine, ‘Hide. I’m here.” Her voice is quiet, but she reaches out and lays a hand on his, and he relaxes into the touch. “You don’ t remember?”

“Remember -” She flashes him little bits of memory that he recognizes as his - and it all comes flooding back; shoving Optimus out of the way, the glint of a scope on the roofline, the explosion - “Oh. Slag. Right.”

“Language.” She tuts again, and it’s so absurd that he stares at her - at the sillohette that is her - until she laughs and gestures to something in her lap that he can’t see. Then sends him an image capture - Hot Rod, curled against her side, helm in her lap, optics dark with recharge. “Optimus released him from duty - he hasn’t left your side since the medics let him in here.”

“‘E’s a good kid.” Ironhide agrees. “Optimus?”

“Apparently he wasn’t listening to Kup. Kept insisting he was fine to keep working.”

Ironhide lets out a laugh that turns only a little hacking. “Primus - maybe he is yer kid. Just a bit. Did ‘wave hafta knock ye out an’ shove ye on a shuttle back here ag’in, or did ye come willingly this time?”

She lets out a choked laugh of her own at that - but her hand settles on his, and there’s uncertainty in the touch. “Hide…” She trails off - then pings him a file.

It’s the damage charts of a dead mech - _his own_ damage charts, he realizes after a moment. Plating shredded, sensor busses lost, seventy percent nanite loss to heat damage over a substantial part of his frame - chunks of armor impaled in his chest, spark chamber breached - 

“They had me on a ship back as soon as it happened,” she offers quietly. “Spark containment - you were having spasmotic coronal flares, I was destabilizing in response. They ‘bridged me back to Cybertron on spark support - we were both fading by the time they managed to stabilize you. It’s been two orn.”

“Primus.” It’s all he can think to say.

“It would’ve been a good death.” She doesn’t want an apology, he knows. There’s no space for that between them - they both knew what bonding meant when they chose it, and her voice is firm. “But we’re not dead. I’ve been -” and there’s a touch of the distaste he was expecting in her voice, there, “ _given an orn’s leave_ before returning to the rim, so hopefully our Lord Protector can avoid getting himself snuffed until then. They’re sending me back with a batch of new officer candidates from Kaon.”

“At least ye’ll have some time ta terrorize them inta shape on th’ trip, then,” he offers with a smirk, and she grins.

“Primus help them.” He lets out another laugh at that, even his it makes his chest ache hollowly, and she gently rubs his hand. “But - well. I met your other one, too - Mirage?”

“‘Raj?” Ironhide scans the room, which is still slowly coming into focus, but there’s no sign of him - and even though he knew the other mech wasn’t there, he can’t help but feel a little flicker of disappointment. He pushes it down, even if there’s no hiding it from Chromia - “How’s he holdin’ up?”

“He was… very upset, I think. Hid it well, but he’s young.” She glances down at Hot Rod, running a hand down the younger mech’s shoulder. “He saved your life.”

“He did?”

“Mm. Shot the helm off the sniper before he could get off a second shot. It was excellent work.” She hums thoughtfully. “I think I intimidate him. I pulled him aside to tell him that, and he made his excuses and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Avoidin’ slag. Sounds like ‘im.” Ironhide nods. “But - ‘e’s a good kid, Chromi. Probably is honestly busy as pit, tryna’ keep Prime safe wi’ me in here. An’ huntin’ down th’ mechs as tried ta take a shot at ‘im.”

“Fair enough. Still…” She shrugs. “Optimus says he’ll be down in a bit - the medics want first crack at you, though. I’ll get this one back to his rooms, if -”

He shakes his helm. “Give ‘im ‘ere?” It takes a klik, but they manage to transfer Hot Rod onto the berth without jostling him awake - the younger mech curls into his side with a wuffle the moment he’s close.

“Good kid,” Chromia offers again, optics dimming fondly. “I’ll send the medics in.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s the rest of the orn before he’s cleared for active duty - only two cycles, really, but Ironhide isn’t going to complain about a little time off with Chromia. Hot Rod seems delighted, anyways, at the chance to work a few shifts as Optimus’ personal guard, and Kup has the Prime’sguard well in hand.

Still, eventually Chromia leaves for Kaon, and life gets back to usual - all without Ironhide seeing even a trace of Mirage until their first meeting with Optimus.

“Really? You haven’t seen him at all?”

“Not a plate.” Ironhide nods. “Figured ‘e must be outta th’ Palace, but Roddy said ‘e was just busy. But yeah - first time I’m gonna set optics on him since th’ attack.”

“That explains some things, at least.” Optimus lets out a frustrated vent.

Ironhide hesitates for just a moment. “Like wha?”

“Like why I’ve been recieving a request every cycle for an update on your condition.” He gives a soft chuckle, but there’s concern in his gaze, too. “I had assumed he wanted to have his requests logged over official channels for some reason - not that he was still avoiding you…”

“Eh…” Ironhide shrugs when Optimus glances over curiously. “I dunno that he is, ta be fair. He must’a been slagged wi’ work, ‘tween co-ordinatin’ with Kup an’ tryna hunt up leads on th’ mechs that did this. An’ ye can’t jus’ order him ta take some time like Roddy.”

“Mm.” Optimus makes a thoughtful noise. 

“Ye _can’t._ ” Ironhide repeats, just a little forcefully. “Th’ kids already overworked ta Pit an’ back - he ain’ gonna take that well, even from ye. An’ - I been talkin’ ta Aileron some.”

“Oh?” Optimus looks curious - unlike either of them, Aileron has raised several younglings of his own. 

“ _He_ says it’s normal for a young mech o’ ‘raj’s age ta push back, some. Try ta strike out on ‘is own. ‘S why I haven’ pushed back harder - I don’ think ‘e’s been slagged a’ me fer a long time. Kid wants his space.” Ironhide shrugs. “I can understand tha’.” 

“Still, not to visit you -”

“Ain’ gonna pretend I ain’t stingin’, Prime. But I been keepin’ busy.” He shrugs. “Kinda glad t’ hear he was askin’, at least.”

There’s another sound of disapproval from Optimus - but before he can say anything, there’s a ping from the door, and Mirage is pushing inside, and Ironhide doesn’t have time to talk about much else before he’s buried under three orn’s worth of security debriefs and investigative updates.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mirage is out the door in a flash, after the meeting - he barely waits long enough to say a polite goodbye to Optimus before almost _fleeing_ the room - and Ironhide doesn’t chase him. He doesn’t linger, either - waving off Optimus’ concerned looks to head back to his own suites.

He’s surprised, therefore, when Mirage is in his room, half-curled on the edge of a couch.

“‘Raj - Commander M’rage?”

“Ironhide -” Mirage scrambles to his pedes, optics locked on him, and Ironhide steps into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. “I’m - I’m _sorry - _”__

__Ironhide steps a little closer - even this far away, he can feel the upset spiking MIrage’s field, the trembling edge of it pricking like static in a stormcloud. He stops an arm’s length away, pushing comfort into his own field almost reflexively. “Mirage?”_ _

__Mirage glances down, doesn’t meet his optics - and the blue mech’s voice is soft, with a faint tremor that matches his shoulders. “I thought you’d died.”_ _

__“What?” Ironhide asks, confused, and Mirage does glance up this time._ _

__“I thought - when the missile landed. You were so still, and I couldn’t see through the smoke - Optimus was staggering away, but he was on his pedes any you weren’t moving.” He falls silent, and looks away again. “I thought it had killed you.”_ _

__“Primus, kid.” It’s telling that, for the first time in a long time, Mirage doesn’t correct him with a title. “I’m sorry.”_ _

__“And then you were in medical and all I could think about -” Mirage breaks off, voice choking a little. “All I could think about was being angry at you. About you dying and thinking I was angry -”_ _

__Ironhide reaches out when the blue mech’s voice cracks - but Mirage pulls away, and Ironhide lets him go, doesn’t try to follow._ _

__“I just…” Mirage hesitates again. “I love you. You -” he trails away, but his optics are wide and bright, and Ironhide can feel a neediness in his field that he recognizes even if he couldn’t name it -_ _

__“I know, kid. I never doubted it.”_ _

__Mirage’s whole frame almost sags with relief, optics shuttering. “Thank you,” he breathes, and Ironhide steps forward, and this time Mirage doesn’t pull away - but Ironhide satisfies himself with just a hand on his shoulder._ _

__“How’ve ye been, ‘raj? I mean - I ain’ seen much o’ ye, lately, an’... I been wonderin’. Haven’t wanted ta push.”_ _

__“I…” Mirage hesitates. “I appreciate it.” He glances away, but his field doesn’t withdraw. “I’ve been busy. We’ve gotten a few new mechs - getting them acclimated has been taking up a lot of my time. But it’s going well.”_ _

__“I’m glad.” Ironhide lets his hand drop. “I’d… like ta see more o’ ye, if you’d be…”_ _

__There’s a flicker of - _something_ \- in Mirage’s field, and a touch of desperate relief in the word when he answers, “ _Yes._ ” He seems to realize it himself - falls silent, for a moment, then starts almost awkwardly - “but…”_ _

__Ironhide urges him on with a gentle brush of the field, and Mirage steels himself. “I need to be - I’m commander of Ops, now, Ironhide. And I - I’ve been working hard, these last few cycles, trying to adjust to the position, and make sure - make sure everymech knows that _I’m_ the commander. Not just a temporary substitute, or - or extension of the Prime’sguard.”_ _

__“Ah.” Ironhide doesn’t let any kind of judgement flicker across his field, even though it’s obvious, from the way that Mirage pauses, that he’s expecting it. The noble waits a moment, but seems a little bolder when he continues._ _

__“And I appreciate - everything you’ve done for me, Ironhide. But I don’t want mechs to think that I’m - that I’m a figurehead for you, or that the Captain of the Prime’sguard has an inappropriate audial within Ops.”_ _

__“Ye need yer distance.” Ironhide nods. “I can respect that. Ye know I don’ like Opswork, anyways, an’ ye’ve done well wi’ it th’ last couple vorns - we’ll keep that up, make sure that nomech gets th’ wrong idea ‘bout me lookin’ over yer shoulder. That work fer ye?”_ _

__Mirage’s field flickers gratefully against his for a moment before smoothing. “Yes.”_ _

__“Still - ain’t untowards fer us ta be friendly, is it?” He offers, letting his own hope flush his field. “Maybe have a cube t’gether in private once or twice an orn, chat a bit? Ain’t like any mech in th’ Palace don’ know what ye are ta me, ‘raj.”_ _

__Mirage doesn’t hesitate at all. “I’d - like that, yes.” He nods. “Could we -?”_ _

__“Yeah - why don’ ye sit, an’ I’ll grab a cube.” He turns, letting his field brush against Mirage’s fondly as he does. “Let me take a load off my pedes fer a bit - th’ medics did good work, but th’ armor ain’ gonna be fully integrated fer another orn. Why don’ ye start by catchin’ me up on how Roddy’s been doing wi’ yer lot?”_ _

__That gets him a smile - for the first time in a long while, a real one, and a weight he hadn’t realized was there sheds off him as Mirage settles back onto the couch. “Oh - Hot Rod has been -”_ _

__\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

__“A mission?” Ironhide glances at Bumblebee consideringly. The minibot is sprawled over his armchair, looking up at him with wide, innocent optics that Ironhide knows better than to trust. “What slag’re ye two up ta, now?”_ _

__“Nothing!” But the cheerful chirp is at odds with the smirk on Bumblebee’s lips. “Nothing bad - we just need you to keep an optic on some prisoners for us, play friendly.”_ _

__Ironhide vents in annoyance. “Prisoners? They got names?”_ _

__“Prowl of Iacon, now Praxus.” Bumblebee pings him a file, and Ironhide skims it as the minibot speaks. “We expect to have him in custody in the next orn - I was hoping you could charm him a bit.”_ _

__“An enforcer?” Ironhide can feel his optic ridge rise. “Yer gonna nab a cop? He dirty, or…?”_ _

__Bumblebee snorts. “For a given value of dirty, yeah. He’s been working with an assassin - the one that extracted me after my last mission?”_ _

__It doesn’t take much for him to realize what the minibot means - the sight of Bumblebee, throat torn open, windshields smashed, limping off of a train into the dim light of an evening station is a memorable one - and Ironhide hums, softly. “Seems like we owe him a thank ye, not a cell, kid…”_ _

__“If everything goes well, we won’t be keeping him in one for long.” Bumblebee’s smirk doesn’t flicker, but there’s something smug in his field that Ironhide takes a moment to examine, and then suddenly everything clicks into place -_ _

__“Oh.” He skims the file again, briefly, and finds what he’s looking for. “Oh - you’re recruitin’?”_ _

__“Not my call - but if the Prime says it’s alright…” Bumblebee trails off with a selfsatisfied shrug. “He’s a real good tac - and the assassin’s nothing to overlook…”_ _

__“Ye think ye can get both’a them?” Ironhide pings a request for the assassin’s file to the minibot, and there’s a moments pause before Bumblebee pings a lightly-redacted file back._ _

__“We’re still following up on some stuff,” he offers as explanation, “but that’s what we’ve got nailed down. We _think_ he’s a gang assassin turned vigilante - a real mech-of-the-people, if we’re reading his targets accurately. Slavers, drug lords, racketeers…”_ _

__“Doin’ good work, if he’s got this kinda kill-count in - Primus, a couple’ o’ centivorns?” Ironhide raises one optic ridge. “Ye sure ye want t’ go after him, mech? Seems like he’ll have th’ whole city cleaned up if ye leave ‘im to it long enough…”_ _

__“He’s a talented gun, and he’s found a talented tactician to aim him.” Bumblebee hums agreement. “But - I think we’d all be more comfortable with Ops’ fingers on the trigger. If Optimus is alright with it - well, they’d complement the team we have nicely, and Optimus doesn’t like having them running around offing mechs without oversight.”_ _

__Ironhide considers that. It’s not inaccurate - he doesn’t have access to all of Ops’ files, but their need for better tactical is no secret - and as far as he’s aware, Howlback and Mirage are the only two opsmecha trained for assassinations, neither of them specialists. “Fair ‘nough. Tell ye what, Bee, I’ll help ye out - if ye’ll tell me why yer th’ one askin’ an’ not ‘raj.”_ _

__Bumblebee gives him a blissfully ignorant, slag-eating grin. “Oh, I figured that it’d been too long since I last hit you up for a favor. ‘Sides, it looks good for me to play ‘raj’s errand mech every so often - keeps the assassins from realizing who’s really running the show.”_ _

__“Sure, sure.” Ironhide barks a laugh at that. “Ah, slag - yeah, I can play Ops’s good enforcer fer a bit. Give me a couple cycles warnin’ ‘fore ye bring ‘em in - I’ll hafta shuffle schedules if I’m gonna be offa Optimus fer tha’ long, but I’ll make it work.”_ _

__“You’re the best, ‘Hide!” Bumblebee skips a step ahead, then two, twisting to grin back at him with a flash of grinning dentae. “See you around then - places to be, mechs to badger, you know the drill -”_ _

__Then he’s gone, slipping like a silent yellow knife down the corridor, and it’s not until Ironhide hears the clang of a vent slipping shut that he’s sure he’s alone in the corridor again. He chuckles as he opens the files and begins browsing them as he works his way back towards the Prime’sguard’s halls._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK BABY!
> 
> Sorry sorry sorry, lol - I have been _so busy_ you wouldn't even believe it. I got a job working with one of the campaigns, but it was like 1-8 so I had *absolutely* no energy to write after, and I was busy in the mornings... and then the election was just high-key stress all around. I have returned, though!
> 
> Hopefully you all like this chapter - it took me way longer than I was expecting it too even outside of all the other stuff, but hopefully it clicks for people. Poor Mirage - he's getting older, and just like with humans, that means having to renegotiate boundaries with the people who helped raise you. Their relationship has cooled off a lot by the time of the main plot obviously...
> 
> If it wasn't clear, this starts a few vorn after the end of last chapter - not too long, but long enough that Mirage is settling into his position. It's a hard job, even laying aside the Ops stuff, so... And now we're back in present day! Next chapter is gonna be the one with Ironhide after Jazz and Prowl merge. This whole thing is gonna get beaten with an editing stick at some point I STG, but I needed to get it out there - let me know what you think!


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